An Eternity of This
by Mandy the O
Summary: A broken man and a haunted woman and the coming together of their pasts.
1. Prologue

Much thanks to my betas **Musique et Amour**, and **Olethros** as well as the wonderful folks at PPN.

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**Prologue**

It had been the scandal that everyone had talked about for months:

_Young opera ingenue disappears from stage as Opera __goes  
up in flames and rushes to the altar with a young nobleman._

The tragedy of the fallen chandelier and the shock of Christine Daae's sudden elopement were on the lips of Paris gossip mongers in every parlor, at every cafe, and during every dinner party. Rumors and speculation on the sordid details flew through the fashionable parts of town and even through the less savory sectors of the city. It was all anyone could think about. The Opera Populaire had closed its doors for nearly a year. The Vicomte de Chagny and his young bride promptly sailed for England. And the whispers of a hideous, obsessed musician that had fallen in love with a beautiful face and voice were no longer debated amongst the vacationing Opera staff. 'That night' would remain fresh in their minds...for as long as it was a worthy tid-bit of prime gossip.

In time, as great scandals do, it faded and was forgotten. The Opera Populaire reopened its doors. A new Season began. The ballet rats traipsed down the halls with less trepidation than they once did. Everyone forgot the Phantom of the Opera and his tragic love story.

But some stories are not meant to be forgotten..

Nor should they...


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

When the Opera reopened its doors, some of the former employees did not return. Some had found other work during the hiatus in the fall and decided to stay where they were at. Others had been afraid to return; there were some whose memories of those horrific hours had not faded and they chose to pursue a life outside of the Opera.

One such person was Madame Anna Toudore, a seamstress and second only to the head costumer, Madame Lafevre. She hadn't been able to put from her mind that night when she'd been neatly tossed aside by a very tall man, cloaked and masked, towing a reluctant Christine Daae behind him after the crash of the chandelier. In that moment, his golden eyes had lit upon hers. Such eyes filled with anger, hatred, and a mad, naked lust. She'd vowed never to set foot inside the Opera house again.

Or so I was told by the little seamstresses that were to be my new assistants. They sat in the cafe of the Opera over coffee and cakes, their eyes wide and brows wiggling. Marie and Jeanette Roue were sisters and had been employed at the theatre since they were fifteen. They were now nineteen and had amassed an impressive collection of torrid and scandalous memories which they had no trouble sharing with others. The two girls, who were identical except for the cut of their bobbing blonde curls, were fond lovers of gossip and were currently regaling me with tales of the fateful night Madame Toudore chose to abandon her post.

"Oooh, yes, Madame never came back! She told us that very night that she'd never walk the halls of the Opera again without seeing his eyes."

"_Murder_. Madame siad murder was in his eyes and she would as soon cut off her right hand then encounter the ghost again."

"Yes, for a while, we were convinced he had murdered Christine and her lover in a jealous rage..."

"But then, just a few days later, there they were taking vows and hying off to England."

"But, he could have killed them very easily I'm sure."

"Oh, yes, he killed Joseph Buquet!"

I nodded and made the appropriate shocked noises when necessary, but inwardly I was wincing. If these two girls were to be my assistants, how was I to ever get anything done? Since I had been introduced to the Roue twins over an hour ago, they had done nothing but regale me with every tidbit of unneccesary and irreverant information on the so-called Opera Ghost. A man, perhaps, who still lived beneath the Opera, but very unlikely to have any bearing at all upon my new post as second head costumer, unless he wanted a new costume with which to terrorize silly young woman like the two in front of me.

As Jeanette was just ready to dive into a discussion of the ghost's lustful urges, I quickly cleared my throat and raised a brow. It was time I took my seamstresses in hand.

"Yes, well, as much as I enjoyed your explaining to me why I should never sit in Box Five or stand beneath the chandelier, I can assure you I will never do those things due to the fact that I, _we_, will be absolutely overcome with our duties. There is a new Season starting in only four weeks with two operas that will need all new costumes and many more that will need alterations done. I suggest that you introduce me to Madame Lafevere as soon as possible so that we may take advantage of this day and begin," I paused, smiling serenely, "early."

Both of the chits watched open mouthed as I stood, shaking out my skirts. Inwardly grinning, I knew I had suceeded in making them realize that though I was only eleven years older than themselves and far younger than the absent Madame Toudore, I was not going to be an errant mistress. Their days of ninnying about were over.

"Yes, Madame Devereaux," they spoke in unison, hurrying to stand and bustle out the door ahead of me.

I followed, head high. It felt nice to be in command again.

My meeting with my new employers, Msrs. Andre and Firmin had gone without a hitch. My references were stirling, a long list of nobles for whom I had designed, created, and fitted with the finest gowns, suits, cloaks, and other garments. The two creations I'd brought in , one an elegant evening ball gown and the other, a gentleman's evening suit, complete with an opera cloak and hat, had impressed them. When they'd asked if I had been in command of others, I'd assured them I'd been in the posistion of mistess of a household for almost ten years, they'd raised a brow, but had given me the post anyway.

I did not deceive myself into believing that Madame Lefevre, a woman, would be so easily acquiesing.

That afternoon, after Marie and Jeanette had led me to the costume room and the mirrored fitting room connected, I'd sat waiting for Madame Lefevre, outwardly calm and serene, inwardly frantic with worry. This was an Opera, but I was a member of the staff who might have to sit in on meetings with wealthy patrons when they needed an account for the costuming budget. There was a scandal attached to my name; Madame might not want to have such a person in her staff.

My fear was betrayed only by the rapid beating at the base of the throat. I glanced at the mirror which covered an entire wall and assessed my person.

The dress I wore was a medium brown, plain with its high, rounded neckline that fell just below my collar bone and sleeves gathered at my wrists, its only concession to fashion the full skirts, serviceable and within my means. My hair which was usually frothing with curls and fell to just below my waist, was pulled back severely, so that only the slightest wave showed. The very noticeable color, a deep brown with tawny gold highlights was also muted by the style. The only other feature that was unusual were my eyes, which were a gold honey-toned brown, in contrast with the dark of my brows and hair. But the glass lensed spectacles I wore distracted from the distinctive color. To all appearances I was simply a tall, thin woman, in her early thirties or late twenties, a spinster or a widow. I was not recognizable as my former self. Even should one of my past circle meet me on the street, they would not know me as Madame Genevieve Devereaux, former Comtess de Bouvieux.

The door to the room opened, and I relaxed my breathing, taking on the cool mask of indifference, ready to meet my fate.

**Please read and review. Thanks!**


	3. Chapter Two

**So, I'm putting the original story back up. I'm so, so, so sorry that I ever took it down and thought it wise to rewrite it...it was a foolish way to deal with stress and obstacles in everyday life making the act of writing so very difficult for me. **

**Chapter Two:**

Madame Lefevre stepped through the door and shut it quietly behind her. I stood, straightening my skirts and curtsied appropriately.

She was not at all what I was expecting. A small, round woman, she stood several inches below me. Her face was soft and round, gently lined and rosy cheeked, her hair was white as a dove's wing and sprang out in tiny curls under her lace cap, her eyes were a kind, faded blue, twinkling with good nature, but also quite shrewd and knowing. She was dressed in a sensible blue frock that suited her coloring very well. It was easy to see her past beauty.

"Madame Devereaux, it is indeed a pleasure to finally meet you. My managers have absolutely raved about you and your work. Such good references." She gestured for me to sit with a shooing motion, and I did so, rearranging my skirts and folding my hands.

"Thank you very much for your consideration of myself for the post, Madame. I assure you, should you decide upon me, I will not disappoint you."

She looked suprised. "Consideration? My dear, there is no consideration to be had. You have the position, child. I've never seen the likes of your work. Not a stitch to be seen, such elegant lines, a feel for the latest fashions. I would be foolish indeed not to hire you."

I briefly closed my eyes in relief. _Thank God_. My funds had begun to run perilously close to the brink of utter ruin, and this position was the only one left open to me. Every other modiste that I had applied to had immediately recognized me, then made the connection with my maiden name and knew whose wife I had once been. Not one of them had been willing to take on such a risky employee. When I had applied to the Opera, I'd taken the chance once again, but the Palais Garnier was a large place and most of its employees did not move in the circles that I once had, where as the modistes catered to ladies of my former ilk. So far, no one had made the connection. It seemed as last that I was safe and protected from my past. _I can start over_.

But her next statement froze me.

"Hmm, your last name is Devereaux, correct?" Her eyes were direct.

"Yes, Madame." _Please, please, please_.

"But yet, your maiden name is also listed as Devereaux. Did you marry a distant connection? You go by _madame_, so I assume I am correct in guessing that you are married."

"_Was_ married, madame. And no, I did not marry into my family." I would be forced to tell her the truth eventually. She did not seem the type of woman to have the wool pulled over her eyes willingly.

"But you now go by your maiden name?"

"Yes, I changed it back to Devereaux. After it was...over." _Please, let this be the end of this questioning_.

"Your marriage must have not been a happy one, my dear." I looked up. Her eyes were soft and sympathetic. I scoffed inwardly. Not happy did not begin to describe my marriage to Armand de Bouvieux.

"No, it was not a happy one." Ten years of fear, desperation, and wishing, wishing, _wishing_ that something would change. That _he_ would change. But he never had.

"May I be so bold as to ask you what your married name was?" Her question was spoken lightly, but it was like a tolling bell in my ears. I knew that everything I worked so hard for, all the plans I'd made, all the hopes I'd put into having this post were all for naught. If she understood and correctly interpreted my answer, I would be turned away. But there was no help for it.

"Bouvieux," I whispered staring at my hands clenched in my lap, so tightly that my knuckles were white.

For several moments, the room was still and silent. Neither of us spoke. I feared she heard my heart pounding in my chest.

Finally, she exhaled sharply and cast her eyes aside at the floor. Her next phrase was not a question, but a statement, spoken with firm finality.

"You are divorced. You cannot be otherwise. I know of only one Genevieve Bouvieux, formally Devereaux. You were married to Armand de Bouvieux. You are the Comtess de Bouvieux."

"I am no longer the comtess. When I divorced Armand, I forfeited my title and my fortune. My clothes were the only thing I walked away with." And only because I had made them myself. Armand would not have borne the disgust of having his former wife's handmade belongings in his home. But everything else, even the money and property I had brought into the marriage were now his. Our marriage had been an arranged one, his reason for marrying me had been my money. When I had divorced him, he had felt cheated. And no judge was going to grant a woman who leaves her noble husband a penny. I was a disgrace, even to my family.

"Well, a former comtess with the skills of a highly trained seamstress. How on earth did you ever learn to sew so well, child. Surely your parents did not encourage such a menial task?"

"No, of course not. They hated it actually! But when I was allowed to put my hair up and lower my bodice, there were no modistes who seemed to create what I visualized. I _loved_ clothes and drawing ladies in beautiful dresses. So I decided to make my own. Our family seamstress taught me how to sew, against my parents wishes, I gave her my pin money and she bought me specific fabrics. I sewed when they were not home. When my mother finally found me out and saw some of the dresses and gowns I'd made for myself, she'd asked me to design and create some for her. Behind my father's back of course. Once some of her friends saw the gowns and asked her about them, she'd commisioned me to make more. That is how I have designed for no many nobles. Except no one had any inkling that a fifteen year old girl were creating them."

"When you married, did your husband approve?"

"No, madame, he was vehement that I wear only the finest gowns from the finest modistes. It was shameful to him to think that I would wear my own handmade garments. When he was not at home I turned a small alcove of our wine cellar into a sewing room. He never ventured there, only the servants did. I sewed my own clothes for years, and he never knew."

"Did he ever discover that you were creating your own gowns?" She had scooted her chair closer to me, her eyes still soft and kind.

Her question brought back an unbidden memory. The room felt as if it shrunk in on itself, and I found it hard to breathe.

_Armand came down the hallway. I was coming out of our rooms, shutting the door behind me when I was slammed against the wall. He was looming over me, his handsome face distorted with rage, his silvery blue eyes blazing._

_"What, Genevieve, my _pet_, is this?"_

_He shoved a half finished bodice in my face, the stitches still loose and hanging raggedly._

_"I, I don't know, dearest. I suppose one of the maids were sewing." My voice broke, betraying me. He nodded, satisfied, and backed away, his face once more becoming the cool, handsome face I was familiar with, but knew so well was not the true man._

_"I see. Yes, love, that's what it must be. Odd though, that one of the maids would be wearing so fine a silk chiffon though, don't you think?" He dropped the piece gently onto the floor and reached to me, caressing my cheek. My eyes fell closed, knowing, _knowing_, that this was not the end._

_I was unprepared for the fist drove into my abdomen. I crumbled, gasping in pain to the floor as he stood over me. He reached down and jerked me up by my hair. Pins went flying, pinging quietly on the carpeted floor._

_"Never lie, to me Genn, never. You know what happens to wicked girls who lie don't you?"_

_"Armand..."_

_"Silent!" He'd roared. "You are my wife, you are my comtess, you will _not_ wear your own homemade clothes. You think to embarass me..."_

_"No," I whimpered through the tears clogging my throat, "I never..."_

_"I shall have to teach you your place again, won't I, Genn. You are my wife."_

_With that, he had dragged me to our bedroom, slammed me onto the bed, and had his way. I'd laid, sobbing silently, struggling to handle the vicious pain. It hadn't been the first time he'd forced me, it wouldn't be the last._

Suddenly, I recalled where I was and who I know was.

"Yes, he did eventually find out. He wasn't pleased. It wasn't long after that our marriage ended."

"Who initiated the divorce, my dear?"

"I, madame." I looked over at myself in the mirror and was unsuprised to find tears in my eyes. "There is only so much a woman can take."

She was quiet, once again. "I understand that the Comte had a violent temper and a short fuse."

I turned back to her. "You heard correctly. I was the recipient of that temper many times, madame."

For a long moment, neither of us said a word. The only sounds in the room were the clock ticking on an end table in the corner. A soft, shushing, like the slide of fabric again a wall reached my ears, seemingly through the mirror. I glanced curiously once again at my reflection.

"Well," she spoke and I forgot the odd sound. "You have been through a great deal, child, for one so young. It is wise that you go by your maiden name. Perhaps it would be even wiser if you were called _mademoiselle_ instead. Yes, I think that is what we shall call you from now on."

My head snapped up. Was I misunderstanding her?

"You.. you mean to tell me that I still have the post?" My voice was incredulous and I felt the sting of tears.

"Why ever would you not, my dear? I do however think it wise that you continue to dress as you are, though. I barely recognized you. I should think that we could fool a few fools, what say you?" She stood and held out her hand. With a grateful sob, I stood and took her little frame in my arms instead, hugging her closely. She laughed merrily and put her small arms around me as well.

"You'lldo very well, my dear. Very well, indeed. Now you come with me and we shall find you a room to stay in here at the Opera." She bustled off quickly, and I made to follow her.

_Free. I was free._ Armand would never think to look for me here. When our divorce was final that day in that courtroom, he had walked to me and leaned in, whispering:

"You won't humiliate me, Genevieve. I won't stand for it. I will end this, my _love. _Think of what protection you are giving up. The death of a common woman, means nothing. And that's what you are now, _nothing._"

"No," I whispered to the silent, still room. "You won't touch me again, you bastard. Never again." I had a new beginning, and I would not give into fear and live my life in hiding.

I followed Madame Lefever out of the room.


	4. Chapter Three

**Chapter 3**

Later that day, I was situated in my new home, a small, but comfortable room off the costume department. Set back off from the main corridors of the opera house, it was private and relatively quiet. My meager belongings, my clothes, and the necessery items for my toilet were arranged about the room. My wardrobe hung in the small closet, my hair pins, brush, mirror, and scented lotions were atop the tiny vanity, and a little vase that I had since childhood sat empty upon the nightstand. A comfortable, but narrow day bed took up the majority of the floor. Madame Lefevere had supplied me with several blankets and instructions that should I want a bath, the running boys could supply me with a tub and hot water. My eyes had widened at that bit of information. Even at the boarding house I'd stayed at after the divorce, my only option had been a half bath tin tub and cold water with the coarsest of soap. It had been soo long since I'd soaked in hot water, and I found myself looking forward to it with near glee.

I also found that employees had access to free meals at the Opera kitchen. My meals of late had been scant indeed. Bread and a bit of fruit had been my staple for a long time and as a result I had dropped every pound of pampered curves that my body had possessed as a noblewoman. I couldn't count how many times I had been forced to take in the bodice and waist of several of my dresses. A corset was no longer even necessary.

As Madame Lefevre was preparing to go and leave me to my new surroundings, she turned with a curious look on her face.

"Genevieve, did you ever have any children?" She came and sat beside me on the daybed. I shook my head, a familiar and soft pang of hurt inside me at the mention of children.

"No, it was yet another matter between Armand and me. He very much wanted an heir. God knows we, _he_, tried hard enough to get me with child, but it never happened." He had hated me for it, blaming me, never considering the fact that he was brutal in all of his intimate dealings with me, and that that brutality had probably damaged my ability to conceive his child. He had beaten me many times for not providing the Bouvieux line with longevity. _Thank me, Armand. You know have the chance to sire a child with another._

"I'm sure that having children would have made the divorce that much harder to justify."

I sighed, brushing back a loose of strand of hair. "Yes, it would have. I would have lost them if the divorce had been granted. A woman has no right to her children."

"No, my dear, and a pity that is, for no man can seem to appreciate them. Well, I must go. If you need anything do not hesitate to call for someone." She stood, patting my leg. "We'll start tommorow on the new costumes that will be needed. Tonight, why don't you get acquainted with the Opera and its people and I shall see you bright and early tommorow morning. Good night, dear." She gave me a last smile and left.

I looked about me biting my bottom lip and then stood and walked to the full length mirror that covered one wall. This place seemed to be covered with these large, ornate looking glasses. There seemed to be one in every room.

"I shall get tired of looking at myself," I spoke to the room at large. I glanced back at myself and noticed that my hair was coming loose. _Damn._ The heavy curls of my hair were near impossible to keep up in the severe chignon that I wore it in in order to alter my appearance. I had to take my hair down and redress it sometimes two to three times a day. I hated having to bind it so tightly, but when married, my hair had always been my crowning glory and I had always received numerous praises for it. It was not easily forgotten and should one of my former acquaintances see me and recognize me, and run into Armand and make mention of seeing his former wife and where, he would come for me, to punish me for making a fool of him. It was a chance simply for vanity's sake that I would not take.

I dug my hands into the mass until the pins began to loosen then pulled them out one by one, plunking them on the vanity, until the last one came out and my heavy curls fell at my waist. I closed my eyes, moaning softly in the back of my throat as I massaged my throbbing scalp. The excuriatingly tight chignon pulled my hair in several directions and taking it down felt better than anything I could imagine at the moment. Sighing with relief, I bent at the waist and let my hair tumble over my head, still rubbing the sore spots.

As I worked my fingers through my curls, a soft sound came to me, much like the swish of fabric that I had heard through the wall in the costume room. I quickly straightened tossing my hair over my shoulders and strained to listen. It came again and I realized it was behind the mirror.

_Rats?_ No, much larger than rats. The sound came from above even my head and seemed to travel to the floor. I stepped closer to the mirror and lightly touched the cool surface.

"Hello?" I whispered softly. Immediately the sound stopped and all was still and quiet in the room. I immediately felt foolish. It was probably just a draft blowing through the opera house, after all how could something large be moving behind the mirror, it was solid stone in the back.

Shaking my head at my silliness, I quickly went to redressing my hair before someone knocked on my door. I decided to braid it and let it hang down my back, a slightly looser style than the torturous chignon, but still severe with no loose curls around my face. After I approved of what I saw in the mirror, I decided it was time to humor my stomach and go find something to eat, besides dry bread and fruit.

I sat at the Opera cafe, an empty plate that had contained delicious roasted chicken and an assortment of flavorful vegetables, feeling very contented and satsified. It had been too long since I'd ate what one could consider a real meal.

As I took a sip of white wine, I felt a peculiar sensation between my shoulder blades. I turned to meet the steely gray eyes of an older woman dressed in black with only a richly embroidered shawl as a relief to the starkness of her appearance. She smiled slightly and and gestured to the chair opposite me.

"May I?" she spoke in a low cultered accent that I did not immediately recognize.

"Of course, Madame, please do." I straightend, feeling as if I should be on my best behavior in front of this woman, odd indeed considering I was thirty years old. She sat across from me and smiled that mysterious smile again.

"You are new here, are you not? You were not here before the closing last fall?" She looked away from me a moment to raise her hand imperiously to a passing waiter. He quickly jumped to attention and came over briskly.

"A cup of tea, Madame Giry, no sugar no cream, a hint of lemon?"

"Yes, Marius, and be quick about it." Her firm tone sent him off quickly again in the direction of the kitchen. She turned back to me and raised a brow.

"Yes, this is my first day here. I am the new assistant seamstress. My name is Genevieve Devereaux." I spoke quietly, carefully, keeping my voice quiet, somewhat submissive. I wanted to give noone here the impression that I had been borne of any higher station than they.

"You are the replacement for Anna Toudore, an altogether foolish woman, running off and leaving her post of so many years merely because of a slight shove." She looked at me closely, a smile still playing about her lips, but her eyes very serious. "Let us hope that you show more sensibilty than her."

I lowered my gaze, gathering my thoughts. What an altogether disconcerting woman this Madame Giry was. Who was she in the Opera and what right did she have to prematurely scold me over my reactions. I raised my head, keeping a soft smile on my face.

"I can assure you, Madame. I am a very practical woman, not given to flights of fancy or fits of the vapors over a fright. I do not believe I will be shoved by the Opera Ghost any time soon." I let aslight tinge of hardness come into my voice, that part of me that had kept me alive and running since leaving Armand.

A glimmer of...approval?...passed over Madame Giry's eyes, then faded back into the cool depths. Her tea appeard at her elbow and she took a small sip before raising her eyes to mine. "You may not be shoved, Mademoiselle Devereaux, but you may be leaned upon. All of us are, at some point or another." She sipped her tea again, keeping those cool eyes upon mine.

I was about to ask her what that cryptic comment had meant when a clear, sweet voice rang out across the marbled cafe.

"Maman!" I looked up to see a lovely petite girl running toward us, dressed in a frothy skirt of tulle and the quilted bodice of a dancer, her tiny feet clad in pointe slippers. A mane of golden hair flew behind her and she was flushed with her exertions. "Maman!" she flew up to the table and grasped Madam Giry's shoulder.

"Meg Giry!" the older woman's voice cut across the air like glass. "You forget yourself."

"Oh, forgive me!" She gave me a quick graceful curtsy. "Mademoiselle," she breathed, then turned back to her mother. "Jammes and Lisette are sneaking into the attics to catch a glimpse of the Opera Ghost. Jammes claims she saw him only last week up there, dashing from one rafter to another, and they are making the most awful fuss. They're drawing the attention of everyone in the hall..."

"Meg, go wait for me in the corridor and tell those foolish creatures that unless they want to be put through combinations all night, they will cease at once, and report in the dancer's common room. Go, girl, now!"

With another quicky curtsey to me, Meg Giry flew off once more, her feet pattering on the floor.

Madame Giry rose from her chair. I rose as well, still perplexed as to what her "leaning" comment had meant. But she gave me a last mysterious smile and then turned, striding off gracefully.

I stared after her, my brow furrowed. Who had they all been leaned upon _by_ and why would this person choose to lean upon me?

That night, after brushing out my hair, washing my face, and changing into a thin cotton shift, I laid down upon the daybed and gazed at my still, white face reflected in the mirror. The Opera House lay around me silent and peaceful. I was so very tired.

I sighed into the darkness and willed myself to sleep, but found I could not. So many thoughts tumbled through my head.

_Can I do this? Can I actually live this life, _alone?_ Can I really be sure that I will suceed in this venture to start over?_ All my life, I'd been spoiled. First by my parents, then by Armand. He had been unspeakably cruel in our private life, but I had never wanted for anything materialistic. I'd never had to defend myself alone. The day that I had done what very few, if any women had done, especially of my circle, and divorced my husband, I'd signed away any chance of having a normal life ever again. I'd escaped from cruelty and abuse, but had ran into a life of constantly looking over my shoulder, never being able to trust again. Armand would pay to find me, and pay well.

Madame Giry's comment had frightened me. What price would I pay to this unseen person who might choose to...lean.. upon me.


	5. Chapter Four

**Chapter 4**

I was sleeping so very soundly, a dreamless, deep slumber that came so very rarely. The bed was warm, the blankets cocooned about me in a nest of tranquil safety that only burrowing into them could give one. I sighed into the peace of the tiny room. _So warm, so safe_.

A pounding came at my door, instantly waking me. I sat up startled and wide eyed. My gaze flew to the huge mirror and took in my shadowed eyes and my tousled curls. My shift hung off one shoulder, and I strangely realized, as if from a distance, how vulnerable I looked. How vulnerable I _felt._

The pounding on the door continued, and I swallowed the thickness in my throat down and stood, wincing at the coldness of the floor on my bare feet.

Before I could reach the door to unlock it and see who was so rudely summoning me, it burst open, the hinges exploding, and the heavy wood splintering as it smashed into the wall.

In the doorway stood Armand, dressed as immaculately as I remembered him, his face cool and handsome, his hard blue eyes cutting into me like razors.

I felt curiously calm, knowing that my fate had been decided for me. He would kill me now. There could be no other option; his pride and the respect of his peers demanded no less.

He stalked toward me, his boots thudding heavily on the floor, until he stood before me. He raised a single finger and lifted my chin. "Mine." he whispered harshly.

"You never even loved me," I said softly, a single tear rolling down my nerveless, cold cheek. "You had so many mistresses. What was I to you?"

"Why, what do you think, Genn?" He leaned in close, his breath cool and minted. "_My trophy._" And his hands came around my neck with sudden violence, crushing. I felt my bones snapping under his large, manicured hands. My mind screamed in agony, but my mouth did not open. The last thing I saw was his beautiful, handsome face, smiling with smug contentment.

I woke screaming, my cries echoing hoarsely about the tiny room. With ruthless speed, I was snapped back to reality and this new existence.

I shook all over, curling into a ball, and sobbing quietly into my knees. _A dream_. Only a dream.

_Oh, god. I can't do this, not alone. Not alone!_ I felt so small, lying there, trying desperately to quiet my weeping and calm my thundering heart. Would the nightmares ever end? Would there ever, _ever _be _one_ night where I could lay and sleep and know that I was completely and utterably safe from Armand. Oh, how I wanted safety, freedom from the horror that my life had become since I had walked down the aisle and said my vows to Armand. I wanted a shield so badly, to be shielded from the cruelties of my life. All my life, until I'd married my devastatingly beautiful husband, I'd been shielded from the horrors of reality, cossested and pampered. How I wished to be seventeen again, flighty and so very silly, pretty and free, without a care in the world except what gown I would make next, what suitor my catch my fancy.

And then, like it had done for the past several months, I felt the steel infuse my backbone, felt the hardness take over and dry my tears. I would not be afraid of living. I had a new chance, a new start. This life at the Opera and all the things I would encounter were mine for the taking. Today was the first day of my new post. I certainly would accomplish nothing, lying in this bed curled up like a scolded dog.

I quickly tossed back the covers and stood, walking purposefully toward the mirror in my shift. My hair lay tumbled around my shoulders, and my eyes were shadowed. I was hardly presentable in my current state and made haste to prepare my toilet to ready myself for the day.

Half an hour later, I was dressed in full black skirts and a prim white blouse buttoned to my throat. My hair was pulled back in the large chignon once more, every pin placed to perfection. I'd washed my face, and rubbed vanilla scented cream into my skin. My spectacles were resting properly on my face and I was ready to face the challenges of dressing a cast of singers and dancers.

Locking my door behind me and pocketing the key in my voluminous skirts, I bustled down the empty corridor. The Opera Cafe was calling and a cup of hot espresso and perhaps some brioche was very appealing. _Mmm, glorious food._

As I turned the corner to come out on the common area, a soft fluttering sound caught my attention. I glanced up to watch an envelope floating above me, flitting softly though the air, then coming to rest at my feet. I frowned down at the black lined cream stationary and bent to pick it up. _How very odd._

The envelope was sealed with red wax, stamped into the unsavory form of a grinning skull.

Who would use such a seal? I grimaced, but began to gently pry it open anyway. I glanced up and down the floor wandering if I was going to be accosted any moment by the disconcerting Madame Giry or the observant Madame Lefevere, but no such good lady appeared, so I continued to open the letter.

Inside written in a very messy, lopsided hand, almost like that of a child, was a missive addressed to ..._me? How did...?_

I shook my head and read the infantish writing as best I could.

_My Dear Madame Devereaux:_

_Welcome, dear lady, to my Opera House. I understand that you are to replace the errant Madame Toudore. Such an unfortunate little scare she had. One should always take care when backstage, do you not think?_

_I have taken the liberty of sampling your work myself. The very well made garment you brought in to show my foolish managers you will no longer find where you left it. I was in need of a new suit, considering my others were destroyed by those twits that you will now call your fellow workers. It fitted perfectly, Madame, you must have known what I prefer. Don't worry yourself, my dear Genevieve, you will learn in time _all_ that I prefer._

_Now, I do believe you have my cast to dress. I am certain that you are not a woman to disappoint. You may return to your duties._

_Signed,_

_O.G._

For several long, silent moments, I could not move, only stare at the letter in my hand. I wondered curiously why the paper began to shake before my eyes, but then realized that it was my hand that was shaking.

The note contained no threatening words, but yet I felt very threatened. It contained no violence, but I could sense the violence in the hand that had wrote this. Who would play such a cruel joke? Such innuendoes? I would learn _all _that he prefers? Who had wrote this and why?

Then I noticed the signature. _O. G. _Opera Ghost.

I almost crumpled to the floor in relief. A petty trick and nothing more. More than likely perpetuated by the little dancers who delighted in horror stories or a careless boy intent on watching the newest employee of the Opera Populaire tremble in her boots.

"Foolishness." I prounounced to the hall. "Utter foolishness." No one appeared. "Ha ha. You had me for a moment, but the game is up, come out and show your face and maybe I won't give you to Madame Giry for a good cuffing." Still no one came out to confess to their little deed.

"Very well," I sighed loudly and ripped the letter in two neatly. "I shall find you out eventually." I tore it once more in two and moved to find an appropriate place to dispose of it.

Only then did I notice the post script on the back:

_Your hair is beautiful unbound._


	6. Chapter Five

**Chapter 5**

_Your hair is beautiful unbound._

After I had thrown the letter away with a shaking hand, I continued on my way to the costume room to begin work for the day. But my mind was far from my duties. How could anyone have seen my hair down and out of the severe chignon that I had worn it in since my arrival at the Opera yesterday. The only moments in which I had worn my hair down my back were the times spent in my chamber, with the door locked. No one had come in while I had been there. Not a maid, not a running boy, not one of the young dancers flitting about. No one except for me.

I tried reasoning in my mind. I was a very practical woman, I truly had never been given to flights of fancy. There had to be a reasonable explanation for this as well.

It was possible, if one looked close enough, to see that my hair was long and curly. Even when bound up so tightly as it was now, there was a slight wave in it and it was coiled many times over. Anyone could interpret long, curly hair as beautiful. It was the current rage in Paris to have curly tresses. God knows I'd seen friends a plenty at dinner parties with singed curls due to hot irons left in a little too long. I'd never had to worry about fretting hours in front of a mirror to acheive just the right set of my hair.

Perhaps it had been noticed that I wore my hair so severely, and thought of as a great way to poke fun. The majority of the staff were under the impression that I was a virginal spinster, firmly on the shelf, with no suitors ever interested. Such ladies were often the brunt of cruel jokes and taunts at their under developed vanities. A perfect mark for silly, beautiful little ballet rats or the scruffy young boys who ran about, performing errands.

_That has to be the answer, a joke and nothing more_.

It put my mind at ease. And I tried to ignore the slight hurt that I was thought of as an ape-leader.

All thoughts of mysteious letters and unbound hair promptly left my mind as I entered the costume room. I had stepped into pandemonium.

The room was filled with the cast of the Opera Populaire. Groups of giggling ballet rats, the more elegant senior dancers, chorus members flirting outrageously with the male singers, and a small group of the elect: the Principals, as Madame Lefevre had referred to them.

As soon as the door shut, all eyes turned on me. Some kind and friendly, like those of Madame Lefevre and the young ballet girls, some cool and distant, like the chorus members and senior dancers, and some hard and hostile, like those of the imperious red-headed woman who stood at the center, one hand placed on her hip, the other holding a little white, yapping poodle. Under her superior gaze, which I was sure was intended to make me feel _inferior_, I straightened my posture, my head rising, my nose tiliting just enough, assuming my role as mistress of the manor. I was second only to Madame Lefevre, and would not tolerate the hostility of the resident diva. I had already been warned, and therefore I was armed. I would certainly be no one's servant.

Smiling, letting once again the steel show through my exterior, I stepped forward. Ready to face this room of challenges.

By noon, I was exhausted.

Over a hundred cast members had had their measurements taken, and bolts of fabric now lay smoothed out over the numerous tables, outlines of which pieces were to be cut out penciled onto the opposite side. I had the Roue twins, who when properly and firmly directed were very good obediant girls, cutting out the bodices, arms, and skirts of the ballet ensembles, which were going to be the very first needed for the new production.

Over the screeching demands of the reigning diva, I had quite coldly and succinctly informed her that costumes would be finished in the order in which they were needed. The ballet was the first act of Le Baudelaire, theirs would be needed first. Also they were all the same cut, color, and design. It was simply more prudent to get them finished first. I had assured her, whilst pushing her out the door, that her gowns would be finished in good time.

I had also noticed that the finely made evening suit, cloak and hat were indeed,gone. I could not allow my mind to ponder on that fact for long.

As the twins moved silently in between the tables, the only sound an ocassional soft giggle, I sat upon a stool, my mouth filled with pins, hemming the edge of the silk skirt that La Sorelli, the prima ballerina, would wear in the first act, during her long, flamboyant solo. The material was a luxurious silk crepe, dyed the color of aquamarines and diaphanous in its weight. It would drape off her elegant shoulders, then tightly form the bodice before flaring in full skirts to come just above her calves. A scarlet red sash would be tied about her waist and would be removable to twine about her lover's neck as they danced. The concept of the gown had been mine, and Madame Lefevre had been very pleased.

I had found myself glowing beneath her praise. My first few moments inside the busy room had been inwardly terrifying. What if I failed? I had never before designed for the stage. What if I got it all wrong? But my mind had taken over, and my hands had simply seemed to follow. The hours had went by in a frenzied blur and I had found myself whirling from one task to the next, mentally catalouging my mistakes and my triumphs. For the time that I had dashed about the room, lost in the ebb and flow of the work, I had forgotten all about why I was here at the Opera. With measuring ribbons hung about my neck and odd pins and needles stuck inside my hair to be pulled out at a moment's notice if needed, I felt as if I had always been here. My excitement grew for the stage, for the music, for the opening night when all of our hard work would come to fruiition. The Roue twins had danced about me, bringing me into their silly young women's circle, making me giggle and blush like the little ingenue I had once been. Madame Lefevre moved about gently, lending a hand, directing me from a distance, and praising my workmanship, making me feel as I were her bondswoman, her apprentice in this art of taking music and dance and turning it into something that could be held and run through one's fingers.

I hummed to myself as I worked the needle through the hem, laughing softly at an off color comment of Jeanette's, when I caught a glance of myself in the mirror.

_I was smiling, and so were my eyes._

For a moment, I could only look at myself, my spectacles half falling off my face from my frenzy of activity, my hair beginning to loosen once again, some long strands at my temples and and forehead hanging limply, my face flushed happily. For the first time since I had married Armand ten years ago, I was content. The Opera had seemed to put its arms around me and welcome me in.

But slowly, my smile faded and I knew that my enjoyment in what I was doing could only make me forget for so long that I was living a lie. I sighed softly and straightened the useless spectacles, pinned back the loose strands of hair so once again I was neat and prim. As I turned back to the dress, a memory came, creeping in softly.

_It was my wedding night. I sat in front of my vanity, anxiously awating the arrival of my handsome new husband, Armand de Bouvieux. I had married him only hours ago in the beautiful chateau of my parents and now we were at his home._

_I gazed into my reflection and admired what I saw. My hair fell in frothy curls to my waist, spilling over my shoulders, in contrast against the beautiful white peignor I wore over the lacy night shift. My face was flushed in the candle light, my lips parted, in anticipation of the sweet kisses Armand was sure to lavish on me. My honey brown eyes glowed softly in the mirror, dark with thinking of what lay ahead. I was an innocent, but my mother had told me that what lay between a man and a woman could be quite pleasureable. I was ready for the loss of my innocence._

_I stood and admired my figure in the swivel mirror across the room. I was tall, a bit more than fashion dictated, but I was svelte and firmly curved and proud of my silouhette.._

_The door opened and Armand stepped through, dressed in a scarlet robe and silk trousers. He smiled, his eyes flashing in the dark room, and prowled over to me._

_"Good evening, my love." I whispered shyly, approaching him. He took my hands in his and brought them to his chest._

_"Genn, you look beautiful. Much to be beautiful to be so innocent." His tone had hardened imperceptiably, and I frowned slightly._

_"My innocence belongs to you, Armand. You know that." The room felt chillier._

_"But for how long, Genevieve? How long until you take a lover besides me? Hmm?" He began slowly pursuing me, pushing me back further into the room, towards the bed._

_"You willalways be the only one, Armand. The only one that I'll ever want." I was beginning to be frightened by this strange side of my husband that I'd never seen before. His smile was cold, and unholy. He seemed to be getting pleasure out of intimidating me._

_"You're lying. You'll take a lover and push his bastard on me, won't you? Won't you?" I was now against the bed and fell back on it with a cry when he shoved me and then crawled atop me. "Tell me you'll take a lover, Genevieve, tell me." He was spitting the words in my face as he untied my robe. I lay frozen , tears beginning to roll down my cheeks. _

_"No..."_

_"Tell me, tell me, now! NOW!" He roared in my face, garbbing my chin, bruising me instantly. He screamed over and over for me to lie to him and tell him that I would grow bored with him and take a lover._

_Finally, I whimpered that I would; it seemed that that would be the only thing that would satisfy him._

_He stilled above me, smiling down at me, stroking my cheek gently._

_"You see, Genn, all women are loose, faithless creatures." And then he took me, with no warning, no gentleness. "I'll make you understand what you are." He growled as he worked above me. And he did. By morning, I would never forget..._

The images of that painful night slowly faded and I breathed again, my vision still unfocused. I had never understood fully why Armand treated me the way that he had. All through our marriage, he reminded me constantly that I was a woman, and to him that meant foul things. He'd punished me for another's sins. I never knew for whom I did nightly penance.

"Mademoiselle Devereaux,"

"Mademoiselle."

"Genevieve!"

I snapped out of my reverie and immediately felt a sharp prick of pain. I looked down. I'd ran the needle into my finger. A bright drop of blood bloomed on the tip.

That evening, I was invited to a dinner party to be held in the Opera Cafe for the staff and cast to celebrate the reopening of the theatre. The Roue twins had informed me that it was to be formal and to wear an evening gown. This presented a problem. All of my evening gowns I'd sold to commission shops after the divorce had been final. The only gowns I had left were suitable for evenings spent in simple company but not for formal evenings when one would be expected to dress their finest.

I finally chose a soft amber taffeta gown that I'd made once for a simple family dinner gathering at my parent's home. It was long sleeved, but had a scooped neckline and full skirts and wrists trimmed in black lace. With my dark black lace shawl, a particuarly beautiful piece that I hadn't been able to part with, and a black ribbon about my throat, it would suffice.

As I stood before the mirror, gowned and ready, I wished with longing that I could take off the damned spectacles and wear my hair in a more comfortable style.

"Well, you can't." I spoke to myself. "You can't jeopardize your livelihood here simply to not have an aching head for once."

I surveyed myself in the mirror. The gown, though simple suited me. I didn't feel lovely, as I once had, when I'd spend hours making sure I looked ravishing to not embarass Armand. Being beautiful no longer mattered to me. Being independent and _feeling like my life was my own_ mattered to me. I was thirty years old and divorced. Being beauiful would no longer help me. This particular gown had been taken in many times, testimony to my months of barely getting by. The fact that I now wore it to a party celebating my employment and future was enough to make me feel as if I had finally broke free.

I turned to leave, and stilled. On my nightstand, in the tiny silver vase I'd had for so long and had been empty for as many years, was a single dark red rose, an ebony ribbon tied about the stem.


	7. Chapter Six

**Chapter 6**

As I trotted down the Grand Staircase to the foyer below and the attached Cafe,  
I mused on the rose in my room.

Suprisingly I wasn't too concerned. It had most likely been put there by sweet little Madame Lefevre to thank me for my first day of service, or perhaps by one of the Roue twins as a pretty gesture. My room _had_ been unlocked for some time today while I had been going in and out borrowing a bit of ribbon to thread about my neck for the gown I was wearing. It could have been slipped into the vase at any time during that interlude.

I smiled, quite contented with myself. The delicate rose had pleased me more than any garish bouquet of hothouse flowers that Armand had ever bought me. It seemed so genuinely offered out of the goodness of someone else's heart. After I'd found it, I'd plucked it out of the tiny vase and brought the silky petals to my nose, taking in the fresh, sweet fragrance. The old Genevieve would have never found such joy in such a small thing.

Below me the party appeared, a colorful array of gowns and the dark coats of perfectly turned out gentlemen intermingling. Laughter rose and I found myself laughing, as Jeanette and Marie spun toward me and danced over in matching pale blue silk gowns. They looked lovely, their fresh faces glowing and the candlelight gilding their golden hair. Both came up and flanked me on either side, threading their bare arms through my taffetta clad ones. I suddenly felt like a gawky giant between these two petite beauties, but their guileless charm quickly put me at ease.

"Oooh, Genevieve, what a lovely dress. Is it one of yours?" Jeanette smoothed her hand over the golden brown material. Earlier, due to our comradeship in the costume room working toward our common goal, I had insisted that they call me by my first name.

"Yes, I'm afraid that I didn't possess any elegant things like the gowns you two are wearing. They're beautiful!"

"Oh, they're not ours. They belong to the costume department. There's a small liberetto that's performed a couple oftimes a year with twin characters. We borrow these all the time." Marie suddenly looked apologetic. "It is alright if we continue doing so, isn't it?"

I laughed and reassured her that if Madame Lefevere was fine with it, then I certainly could see no problem.

We moved into the circle of the party and unlinked arms, as I was offered a small glass of champagne. I took it and sipped gently; I did not hold liquor well., one would have to do me all night.

I was introduced to more staff and cast that I had not previously met during my hours out of my room. I smiled, keeping my face schooled into a bland, pleased expression, and my voice quiet and low. I didn't want to be overly noticed, to have people look at me too deeply for fear one of them may have at some point seen me before. Armand and I had frequented the Opera on occassion.

To my relief, those who met me simply gave me a glance over, listened half interested as I was introduced as Anna Toudore's replacement, nodded to me or shook my hand and then moved on. A tall, thin, prim looking spinster didn't hold much interest.

I pressed hands with the kind, older ladies of the cleaning staff, and studiously avoided the razor eyes of La Carlotta. When I finally found Madame Lefevere in the crowd, dressed in mulberry muslim, I went to her side and she smiled delightedly and bussed my cheek.

"Oh, dear, it's good to see you enjoying yourself. What a lovely gown, it suits you very nicely. Are you finding everything to your satisfaction here? I was immensely pleased by your work today, I do hope you know that." She took my hand in her soft, lined one and patted. I gently squeezed and smiled down at her.

"Yes, I know, Madame. Thank you so much for the beautiful rose, I appreciate that gesture so much."

Her faded eyes grew puzzled. "My dear, I didn't put a rose in your room, though I wish I had, you seem so pleased by it."

My brow furrowed. I glanced over to the Roue twins, laughing and flirting outrageously with two handsome stage hands. Could they have?

"Oh, well," I sighed, turning back and smiling at Madame Lefevre. "It really holds no import. Perhaps a member of the staff chose to welcome me with it. It was a pretty gesture, never the less."

She smiled and I turned to gaze about the room watching the festivities. I didn't miss the cool assessing gaze of Madame Giry.

After the last of the revelers had returned to their homes or to their beds at the Opera, I made my way upstairs, weary with listening to all the numerous speeches and impromptu music that had been offered. Carlotta Guidacelli, not wanting to be outdone had sung three arias. After sitting and bearing through them, I had to admit, that woman's voice left me wanting more.

I reached my lone room at the end of the long corridor and fished the key out of my pocket in my dress. I was just beginning to lament my aching muscles after such a long day when a small boy appeared at my side. Grinning cheekily, he asked if I would like a tub and hot water sent up for a bath. I stopped and a slow smile spread across my face. The thought of soaking in a long hot bath sounded like ecstacy.

I quickly sent him on his way, and stepped inside my room ,singing softly. _Oooohh, a bath!_ I almost danced around the room as I pulled out my tiny bottles of scented oils that I bought with aprecious bit of money I'd kept hidden in my wardrobe after the divorce. I'd never had the chance to use any of them; the boarding house water had always been ice cold and I had not wanted to linger.

As I arranged the little bottles on the vanity, a slip of something white caught my attention. I turned and stared unbelevingly at the tiny vase with the rose, and the black edged envelope resting against it. I whirled about the room, there was no one there. I ran to the bed, and dropped to my knees checking underneath it; no one. I threw open the closet; again, no one. There was no other place to hide in the room.

I then noticed that my floor had been freshly swept. _The cleaning staff_. Someone must have asked them to leave the note for me. Calming myself I strode to the dresser and picked up the envelope. The same red, wax grinning skull greeted me. It seemed to stare at me with unholy glee. I promptly ripped through his face and tore out the letter inside, which was written in the same childish handwriting as before.

_My Dear Madame Genevieve:_

_Did you find the rose to your liking? It was quite amusing to watch you inquire after it tonight at the party. Those foolish young twins would not have thought to have left you such a simple, eloquent gift._

_Why did I leave it for you, you ask? For the same reason that Madame Lefevere would have left it for you; You pleased me immensely today. Such hard work, such determination. You will fit in very well here at my little Opera House. In more ways than one._

_I have been thinking upon you. A great deal. Yes, you will do nicely. Very nicely indeed._

_Enjoy the rose._

_Signed, _

_O.G._

_P.S. The suit fits very well. It is very rewarding to once again feel oneself. You will assist me greatly in that area, Genn._

I stared at the missive, reading it over and over again, sinking onto my bed. He was pleased by me? Who was _he?_ An admirer, surely not. I had not been here long enough to warrant an admirer and when out of my room, I maintained so prim an appearance and so unwelcoming a picture,femininity wiseat least, that it would take a great stretch of imagination to believe I had caught the fancy of someone.

Simply someone who had seen my work today and my determination to do my duties correctly?

_O.G.?_ Had I begin ignoring the possibility that this man, this _phantom_, was still alive and underneath the Opera and had noticed me, and chose to acknowledge my work in _his_ Opera.

Once again, there was no threat in the letter, but I felt threatened still.

But the idea that this madman who had kidnapped Christine Daae, and had become the stuff of lengends with the ballet girls actually existed, and was sending me pretty little praises was simply too much.

"How ridiculous! I'm going to find the scamp responsible for this and turn him over my knee." I declared to the room. Perhaps even now the rascal was outside the door, his hand pressed to his mouth, barely restraining his laughter.

I marched to the door and nearly frightened to death the little maids holding my large tub and several buckets of steaming water. I blushed deeply and let them in.

After they had left and I thanked them profusely, I bent beside the tub and added my vanilla scented oil, closing my eyes and inhaling the rich, sensual aroma. I stood and began unhooking the eyes of my dress until it fell in a soft whush at my feet. I carried it over toa chair, laying it across, humming softly. I turned and looked into the large mirror on the wall as I began untying my petticoats, dropping them also and arranging them over the chair. When all I had left on was my loosely fitted corset and the lace chemise underneath, I reached up and began taking down my hair, pin by pin, still humming. I was looking forward so much to this bath. _Mmm, the one thing I had missed more than anything else. _

After my hair was completely unbound and falling to my waist, I unhooked my corset, laid it over the chair and then propped my foot upon the chair to unroll my stockings down my legs. It had been so long since I'd had the luxury of indulging in a long toilet and I pulled the sheer stocking off with glee waving it about in the air before letting it float to the floor, I then propped up my other foot and gave the same carefree treatment to the other stocking. Finally I pulled the lacy chemise over my head and stood nude in thesomewhat chilly air. I delicately stepped into the tub, moaning low in the back of my throat at the first touch of the steaming water. I sunk in the rest of the way, stretching out my legs and leaving back, sighing happily and letting my eyes close in bliss. I luxuriated in the quiet of the moment, the only sound my little clock and the soft sway of the water around me. Once again I heard the quiet shush of fabric through the wall and what sounded like a soft groan, but I shrugged. This building was bound to make noise once in a while. I closed my eyes once again and sighed softly.

It was only then that I remembered that theletter had called me ..._Genn._


	8. Chapter Seven

**Seeing the new reviews this morning made me sit here and cry a little. I appreciate all of you so much. To answer a question, no this is not the rewrite...this is the original. I might edit a few things out once I get to Chapter 60 and beyond, because there were a couple times I think I wrote myself into a damn corner, but it won't be very much that will change. And then! If luck will be on my side! I'll finish it and start look into getting it published. :D**

**Chapter 7**

The next morning, I laid in the small daybed. The Opera House lay quiet about me. It was still very early and no one had risen from their beds to begin the day.

I hadn't slept.

Someone, here, in this theatre, knew who I was.

_How?_

I had been so careful. The only person who knew that I was the former wife of the Comte de Bouvieux was Madame Lefevre. No one else even guessed that the _uppity _young noblewoman who had had the nerve to divorce her outrageously wealthy husband due to _domestic_ disputes was in hiding from society in the costume department of the Opera Populaire.

I remembered so well the outrage of my family, my friends, and especially Armand. They all thought that I was being ridiculously unreasonable, wanting to bring so much shame on my family and his. No one divorced. It simply was not done. And those who did were instant social outcasts, turned out of their home and seen as pure trash. And when a woman sought a divorce away from a noble husband, it was even worse on her. I was seen as taking all I had been born and bred for, and throwing it in the faces of countless generations of noble blood.

Even when, in that courtroom with all those eyes staring at me in scorned disbelief, I'd told my story, the abuse, the rape, the utter cruelty for no reason, I was given no quarter. I had former servants as witnesses. Some had came to me after Armand would beat me senseless and take me in a carriage to see our doctor. I'd always claim that I'd fallen in my clumsiness; he'd always accepted it, but I knew when his eyes lit upon mine that he _knew._ There were only so many times that servants could bring you to his home, in the middle of the night, only so many times that he could set broken bones, bind ribs, apply leeches to virulent bruises. I saw him two to three times a month, every month, for the ten years of my marriage. He'd always see me out the door, and say in his disapproving voice, "You must be more careful of how you step in your home, Madame le Comtess." We both knew that he didn't speak of the way in which I walked.

He wouldn't even come to testify. He served many noble families, he couldn't risk losing his patients. To stand behind me would have invited hate and ridicule.

The judge had been completely uncaring about my testimonies of rape. "Madame Bouvieux, a husband cannot rape his wife. He has the right to demand of you anything he wants, including your body." The courtroom had filled with laughter at the words of one particular _grand dame_ in Armand's family. "What's good for the gander is good for the goose."

With all that shame and degradation behind me, I had been very, very careful not to allow anyone here at the Opera, my last place to stay respectable, know of my former identity. It wasn't only Armand's wrath that I feared, but the knowledge that any member of his family could have me run out of Paris, forced to live on the street and possibly sell my body to live. I'd take my own life before I would ever suffer that.

So how had this O.G. found out my name that only Armand called me?

And knowing that, what price would they extract from me to keep that information secret?

Over the next several days, I received no more letters, no more mysterious roses. My days at the Opera Populaire settled into a familiar routine.

Each day was filled with preparing the costumes for the new production of Le Baudelaire. My little "family" and I had soon finished all the rough assembling of every garment for the _corps de ballet_, and only the final stitching and fittings remained. Soon the costume room was filled with diaphanous fantasies of aqua chiffon, and touches of scarlet here and there. Simple, lightweight head dresses in soft rose colored silk hung from every peg and rack in the room, awaiting the final touches of beading and edging. The principals, including the demanding Carlotta had been mollified, by numerous fittings of the luxurious, voluptuous gowns the ladies would wear and fitted robes and crowns the men would. I had decided right away that we would keep a schedule and had posted it on the wall, and we had kept to it. With two and half weeks left to opening night, we were exactly as we should be. A hum of anticipation hung in the air. The Opera Populaire was to have its greatest and prestigious season ever after a string of tragedies that had nearly ruined the great house. It was breathtaking being a part of that.

I had begun to relax, to enjoy even more my days here, my work. The letters had obviously been a joke, a testing of sorts of the new employee, nothing more. I convinced myself of this and firmly believed it.

I had no idea that the warning that Madame Giry had given me that first day would soon come to reality.

One night after a particularly long day of being on my knees hemming, I was walking wearily but contentedly up the stairs, humming softly to myself, a book in my hands that I borrowed from Jeanette, a Jane Austen that I had been meaning to read, when I heard a familiar sound, like the fluttering of a small bird's wings. I glanced up and felt my face go white. A letter was floating down to me.

Anger filled me. _You let me get comfortable and then you strike again, you bastard!_ I crossly snatched the letter out of the air and stormed the rest of the way to my room, shoved the key in the lock, and slammed in, letting the door resound, and threw the book upon the bed.

I ripped open the letter and tossed the discarded envelope angrily to the ground.

_My Dear Genevieve:_

_Our games are at an end, my dear. It is time, I think, to come to the point of this little play of ours._

_For the last year, I have lived down here, in no way the comfort that I once did. I can no longer go above the surface except to pay a little visit once in a while to your lovely person. My supply of funds has run dry, and I am in the need of more._

_Where as I once could freely demand my monthly allowance of 20,000 francs, I no longer have that option. One word from me and my sanctuary would once more be invaded. I will not take that risk._

_Therefore, I have decided that_you_ will take that risk for me._

_My first need is food. You will go to the cafe after hours and make up a basket of breads, cheeses, fruits, and a few good bottles of wine then you will bring the basket of said goods to your room where you will leave it in front of the mirror. You will not leave the room, but wait with your back turned to the mirror until I come and take the basket. You will not turn around._

_Just in the chance that you think to refuse me, think on this, Mademoiselle Genevieve Devereaux, formally the Comtess de Bouvieux, your dear beloved once-husband is looking for you. You humiliated him and it has caught my attention that he has been inquiring of your where-abouts. How unfortunate should he hear that you are here in my Opera House parading as a common seamstress. How unfortunate indeed._

_I have watched you closely. I have observed that you enjoy your life here. Do not put it at risk. I will be waiting at midnight tonight. Do not disappoint me, Genevieve._

_Signed _

_O.G._

_Incidentally before you await me, take down your hair. I'd enjoy taking in the fragrance of the vanilla that you use in your bath._

I finished reading the letter and slowly sat down upon the bed. My rage had left me and all that was left was an icy numbness that crept around my heart.

This man was going to use me and his knowledge of my past. I had become the victim of a man once more, and there was not a thing I could do about it. My hands were tied very firmly and I heard the door of my cage slam shut.

For long moments I did nothing, inwardly considering flight. I could pack my things now and be gone before midnight, before this O.G. was expecting me.

But no matter where I went, or what I did, I would always be running from my past and it would eventually catch up with me. Greed is a powerful force to be reckoned with.

I had no option but to do what he asked. I loved my life here and I felt that I had finally come home at last and as he had written, I could not risk it. I lifted the letter and re-read it with dull, aching eyes. I knew that the food would not be the end and I would be forced to steal much more for him. What else might he demand from me?

The Opera Ghost, or the Phantom of the Opera, as the ballet rats called him, was a real living breathing man. I had learned much of him over the last weeks from Marie and Jeanette and even Madame Lefevre. He had lived underneath the opera since its creation, had helped create it. He'd terrorized the managers, demanding everything from money to how the theatre was to be run. He'd left the individuals of the opera well enough alone until he had fallen in love with Christine Daae two years ago. Then his influence had not been able to be contained. She would disappear for days at a time only to come back with horrific stories for her lover, Raoul de Chagny, the Vicomte de Chagny. A stage hand at died because he had seen too much. A tenor had also lost his life when the Phantom demanded that his own opera be performed and had decided to take Ubaldo Piangi's role himself. Then the most horrendous incident, that very night as his opera was being performed, the chandelier had dropped onto the audience after Christine had unmasked him on stage, killing over a dozen people and nearly destroying the Opera.

I'd been told countless stories and the only difference I'd found was the appearance of the Opera Ghost. There were hundreds of eyewitnesses to that terrible night. I couldn't doubt his existence any longer.

I do not know how long I sat there, staring at the letter but not really seeing it, until my clock chimed and I glanced over. Eleven o'clock. I had an hour.

Wearily I stood and turned to the mirror. I was now certain that all the times I'd heard that soft brush of fabric, it had been _him_ in the corridor on the other side of my mirror. I remembered hearing it all the nights I'd luxuriated in my bath after undressing fully in the lamplight, and my eyes slid closed in shame. He'd watched me as I'd undressed, as I'd bathed, after I'd stood from the tub and walked dripping water and suds to my robe.

I faced my closet. I had to wear something dark to blend in with the pitch blackness of the halls at this hour. The lavender skirts and white blouse I now wore would be easily visible.

I chose a black, scooped necked long sleeved gown that I'd worn to numerous funerals. As I undressed, I tried to forget about the fact that he was probably watching me. I defiantly turnedmy back to the mirror as I pulled the gown on and fastened it. A black traveling cloak with a deep hood would conceal me completely.

With my head held high and proud, I looked at the mirror, silently daring him, if he was looking, to come out to hurry me. Finally after whispering an unlady like curse, I turned and left.

The store rooms of the cafe were kept with very lax security, merely a simple lock that after agonizingly picking with a hairpin for a long moment came open with a quiet click. I sagged against the door in relief and quietly went in.

Moving silently among the shelves, I filled a basket I'd filched from the prop room with several thick loaves of bread, rounds of cheese, a large amount of mixed fruits, and three bottles of wine that I looked over carefully to check the year. I didn't want to risk it not being good enough for my invisible dictator.

Finally, I left, securing the lock behind me. No one stirred in the cavernous foyer. No one had noted my appearance. I fled quietly up the stairs and to my room.

When I unlocked the door, it was still and dark inside. The mirror stood eerily quiet. I set the basket down before the mirror and turned to face the wall. The clock struck midnight.

Behind me, I heard the mirror slide quietly open.

Then a voice, like the slide of silk across heated skin:

"I thought I instructed you to take your hair down."


	9. Chapter Eight

**Chapter 8**

I froze, rooted to the spot in which I stood , my world narrowed to a pinpoint: that voice and the order it had given.

I swallowed, my throat felt swollen and dry. I couldn't speak: I dared not.

Behind me came footsteps, slow and soft, almost silent, even on the hard wood floor. A moment later I felt the heat of another's body behind me. When I inhaled another desperate breath, the haunting scent of firewood wreathed my senses; birch, cedar, sandalwood, and candle smoke. I felt my knees begin to weaken, whether from fear or reaction to the unnerving prescence behind me, I knew not.

He repeated his demand: "Take your hair down." His voice was low and sensual, compelling to the point that I raised my trembling hands and lowered the hood of the cloak and reached for the first pins.

"No. Remove the cloak first." He stepped closer and I barely kept a low whimper from my throat. I felt more threatened by this stranger's presence than I ever had in Armand's. With Armand, I knew what he would do if provoked. With this shadow behind, I knew nothing.

My cold fingers fumbled at the clasp of my cloak until it flicked open and the heavy wool pooled at my feet. I reached up and resumed pulling out the pins.

As I removed each one and let it fall to the floor in the silent room, my mind worked furiously. _I did what you asked!_ The basket sat untouched by the mirror still, why did he not simply take it and leave? Why put me through this ordeal? He had what he wanted, my obediance. Why torment me?

I heard his deep, even breathing behind me, low and resonant. No other sound betrayed him, he stood immobile.

The last pin fell from fingers. My hair lay heavy upon my shoulders and down my back. I waited for what he would do next with a painfully thundering heart. My bravado of earlier, my determination to not be weak, had been destroyed by this tense moment. I knew nothing would ever be the same again, it couldn't. We had irrevocably stepped onto this course. Neither of us could now ever forget the other existed.

Then he was against me, and I gasped, my first audible sound since his entrance into my world. The shock of his warm, hard body against my back, the steely strength of the solid muscles pressed to my shaking form and towering above my own considerable height made me feel suddenly small and weak. I wilted and felt every inch of steel that I cultivated so steadfastly into myself dissolve. His hands came and wrapped about my arms, clad in black leather, large broad palmed, long fingered hands that gripped with an iron force. I wondered numbly if I would be bruised tommorow.

He leaned in and I felt his hot breath against my cheek. He took a deep breath, his head down and against the side of my own. For a long moment neither of us moved. And then with a rough shove that made me cry out, he threw me against the bed, my hands catching myself, my face momentarily pushed into the coverlet. I waited, breathing harshly, for him to attack me, but when the clock on the dresser continued to tick away loudly in the silence, and nothing happened, I looked behind me.

He was gone, and so was the basket.

Eight o'clock the next morning found me in the costume room ahead of everyone else. The large room was silent, my only companions the dress forms wearing the _corps de ballet_ ensembles. I sat stitching a bodice together, my fingers working furiously, the down and through motion repeated over and over, a soothing rhythm. My spectacles were on, my face washed, my hair coiled back in a tight coronet, the dove gray morning gown a perfect accompaniment to my dark mood.

I was _furious_ with myself! I had acted like a shrinking violet last night, going weak at a powerful man's touch, and not even defending myself when he had gripped me so forcefully.

When I had dressed myself that morning, I'd been in possession of bruises on my upper arms from his fingers. Looking at the huge mirror, I'd shrieked: "I hope you're terribly pleased with yourself, you bastard!" I hadn't had bruises on my body since I'd left Armand, and it disgusted me that through my own cursed uncharacteristic weakness last night, I was wearing them once more. _If he dares uses force on me again, I'll set up the hue and cry and have the managers upon his wanted self, damn the consequences!_

But I knew that was truly not an option: to escape one vicious cur only to be thrown back to another who I knew would kill me was no escape at all. I would have to bend to the plot he had written me into. To do anything else was suicidal.

I looked about the room, my eyes lovingly caressing the costumes we'd created. I felt so fufilled in this. Even after last night, and the first moments of self-loathing of my reactions to the Opera Ghost, _no_,to the very much a real man, I had still looked forward to coming down here and losing myself in the work. Madame Lefevre had been hinting at her retirement over the last couple of days, saying she still wanted to have a role, but give the reins of the department to younger hands, and I felt a rise of exhilaration at having control of this domain. I would follow the orders of my manipulative friend, in order to preserve this state of things, but I would be in control of my encounters with him. He could only make me weak and terrified if I allowed him to, and I was determined next time that I would hand him his request then calmly show him the door, or mirror, as it was.

Strange how in less than twenty fours hours, a being that I had merely dismissed as unimportant and irreverant had suddenly become the key stone in my life. I hated this invisible puppeteer with me as the marionet on his strings. How long would it be before I was made to perform again?

That evening, Jeanette, Marie, a couple of the cheeky, handsome stagehands they were courting about with asked me to join them for a stroll on the rooftop and a picnic beneath Apollo's Lyre. I granted their request knowing the real reason for the invitation was that Madam Lefevere saw the girls as daughters and would want a chaperone for the twins, but did not want to embarass them with her much older ways.

I climbed the many stairs behind them to the rooftop, my cloak over my arm just in case it was chilly, but once we came out onto the stone flags, we discoverd the evening was unseasonably warm with just a hint of a tart breeze. I laid my cloak aside over a gargoyle and strolled behind them, taking in the magnificent view.

I had never been up here before, and the sight of Paris spread beneath us, a thousand golden lights dispersed among it rooftops was breathtaking and romantic. I turned and watched each of the girls take the hand of their lad and begin to chat lightly. My own heart constricted slightly. I had tried so hard throughout our violent marriage to gently convince Armand to love me, but it had been useless. Even without his iron fists, he'd had tarts from one end of Paris to the other to warm his bed, and I'd always wondered if he'd treated them as he'd treated me.

Leaving them to wander, I made my way slowly to the statue of Apollo's Lyre. I craned my neck to stare up at the beautiful scupture, it's wings spread, the moon hanging appropriately directly over head. Feeling a childish burst of energy, I glanced about to see if the children were anywhere about, and then hiked my skirts and began to climb. When I reached the spread of the wings, I threw my legs over one and sat, brushing the loose strands of hair out of my face. I smiled and laughed into the cool night air, feeling like I did when I was twelve and had climbed up into the tree outside of my parents town home in Paris and had waved to all the passing couples, throughly scandalizing my mother.

_Hmm, it was so long ago_. I propped my chin upon my clasped hands and stared at the moon. What I would have given to be that child once more, with no troubles beyond teasing the cat and climbing trees, before I'd turned my majority and had had to be trained to be a decourous young woman who would make the perfect wife and hostess. When I'd turned sixteen the fun had stopped. I was attending finishing school, was trotted out in front of guests to display my skills upon the piano forte and my mediocre voice, hoping to catch the eye of a distinguished household with a marriageable son. I'd been eighteen when finally a family had walked into our home for dinner one night and walking behind them was the most handsome man I'd ever laid eyes on. Tall, broad shouldered, urbane, with glossy chestnut hair combed just _such_, a debonaire mustache trimmed perfectly, cool pale blue gray eyes and a toothy smile that could have charmed the habit off a nun. My shallow young heart had instantly fallen in love with that beautiful exterior, never dreaming of whatmightlie beneath. If I'd paid closer attention, I would have seen the cold, cruel glint to his father's eyes, the lavacious looks his mother cast at my father with_ my_ mother sitting right there. But I hadn't. I'd given my love, my trust, and my hand to him blindly and had paid dearly for it.

Below me I heard a door shut softly and I closed my eyes in self reproach. The twins had left along with their beaus. They'd probably looked for me but had been unable to find me.

I sighed and made to swing my legs down to begin the climb down the statue when I heard the door shut again, I glanced up, expecting to see one of the girls, but instead there was a man.

He walked slowly toward the edge of the rooftop, his movements graceful and controlled. From my view I saw the top of his head and shoulders, his hair a deep brown, almost black combed back and gleaming until it waved slightly above hisstark white collar. He wore an elegant black cloak that hung about him to perfection, fairly screaming that it was expensive. When he turned I caught a glimpse of his left side. He had a face that made even my hardened heart want to sigh in pure feminine appreciation. He was nothing short of beautiful, his bones classical and well defined, his chin clefted, his lips curved in a sensual smirk. Lips that immediately brought to mind long, drugging, heated kisses. He wore a rich coat of dark black that my trained eyes immediately noted as very high caliber Bath superfine. His waistcoat was a deep deep burgundy satin brocade, a black cravat tucked in just so.

My brow furrowed; the suit looked very familiar.

Then he turned to his right, and the moonlight hit upon a white porcelein mask covering the other half of his face.

I gasped from my perch. _It was him!_

Too late I realized my mistake: he turned and looked up directly into my face high above him. And he smiled, the visible corner of his lips lifting in a sensual, knowing smirk.

"Good evening, Mademoiselle Genevieve."


	10. Chapter Nine

**Chapter 9**

For several long moments in which neither of us spoke, I stared down at his still form, the black of his clothing a stark contrast against the white of the mask, and the paleness of his skin. He did not look away but unnervingly, and with absolute unwavering focus stared up at me, his sinful mouth still formed into that smirk.

My mind desperately casting about for alternatives, I looked wildly around the rooftop; there was no other option but to go down. I had unwittingly put myself into the position of the mouse in this wicked game of his that he was intent upon playing out.

Taking a breath, mentally berating myself, I began to climb down, at one point my hand slipping and crying out foolishly before maintaining my grip.

Finally my feet touched solid ground, and I took a moment, my eyes fixed unseeing on the smooth stone of the statue, to smooth my skirts and sweep a loose curl behind my ear. _He can only intimidate you if _you_ give him the power to. _With that mantra repeated throughout my head, I turned to face him.

And found him no more thanscant inches in front of me.

I stepped back with a startled gasp and he merely stepped forward. _How had he moved so quickly and quietly?_

He raised his visible brow in a mocking gesture and waited, as still as death itself.

I took a deep breath, willing myself to calm, but his scent drifted through my head once more and I lost my focus. I shook my head slightly and looked him in his eyes, preparing to give him a thorough verbal thrashing, but lost my train of thought. _He had beautiful eyes_.

Before I could gather my wits once more and speak, he did so first:

"How...fortunate...that we meet again so soon, Mademoiselle Genevieve. It appears that I may not have to write that letter after all." His voice was low and seemed to seep into my senses, every word that of a gentleman, every word containing a promise of a threat.

Tilting my chin at a stubborn angle, looking up at him, while trying to look_ down _at him, I spoke, hoping some of my so very rapidly depleting steel would come through my voice:

"What do you want, Monsieur?" I stared at him, hard, feeling the self-righteous anger beginnning to bloom again. _He can only intimidate you if you give him to power to._

I would do what he said, but I would _not_ do it lying down.

He narrowed his eyes and his face hardened. He stepped even closer and my breath left my body in a _whoosh _as his frame once again pressed to mine. I closed my eyes ashamed of the fact that even after all I'd gone through with Armand, I could still be intimidated by sheer size and strength, and though I was a tall woman and by no means a frail creature, he stood several inches over me and was twice as wide, no doubt every inch of it lean muscle and solid bone.

"I would _think_ that by now, Mademoiselle, that would be clear to you. You don't strike me as a stupid woman. Do not make me alter my perceptions." His breath was a hot assault against my face and I kept my eyes closed, feeling all the while like the scared girl of twenty I'd been when Armand first began to show his true colors. I began to shiver.

Suddenly I was bereft of the heat of his body, and I opened my eyes to see if he had grown tired of my timidity, but found him striding back to me, his movements catlike and powerful at the same time, seeming to move to a music only he could hear. My cloak was tossed over his arm. He whipped it out and flung it at me. I reached to catch it, but my hands clapped in mid-air, the cloak having fallen short by bare inches and when I looked at him, I understood that he hadn't meant to have me catch it. I felt the hot sting of tears at the back of my eyes and I kneeled before him to pick up the cloak and wrap it numbly about me. I felt like nothing more than a fool.

He began to circle me, slowly. I lifted my eyes to his, but didn't follow his gaze as he came around behind me. I felt him stop. Neither of us moved. My heart was pounding and I felt like each breath was a monumental undertaking. I knew what the mouse felt like when stared down by the hungry cat. My mantra of earlier seemed to do me no good now. It was impossible to take the upper hand now, I had shown too much fear and once again I wondered where the confident Genevieve who had taken the reins of her new life so well had gone. _She's fled with her tail tucked between her legs, that's where._

My heart took up its race with even more determination when I felt the slide of his body against my own once more. _What was his game?_ I did not honestly believe that he wanted me in any carnal sense. It seemed much more likely that he was using the physical as a means to intimidate.

His breath was warm and directly against me. When next he spoke, I felt the almost imperceptible movement of his lips against my ear:

"I think, my dear, that I know what I shall be needing next. A task which, I'm certain, you are more than capable of handling." He stepped closer, if it was even possible and his hands came up, grasping my hips on either side. Even through my cloak and gown and petticoat, I felt the force of his grip. He turned me toward him and I found myself staring at his mmaculate cravat.

A gloved hand raised my chin to look at him. I closed my eyes, shutting them tightly. One hand moved to the small of my back, and I once again had the hateful sensation of being small.

"Open your eyes." The command was soft, but there was no doubt in my mind that it was an order to be obeyed. I slowly opened them and raised my gaze to him. I let my hate for him show. He smiled, a slow, devastating smile that contained no real touch of warmth. It was a smile that made me feel cold down to my bones. "That's better." He removed the hand from my chin and brushed back a strand of my hair. I barely restrained my reaction to his touch.

"Now, this is what you will do." And just like the night before, his voice lowered, became compelling, giving meevery hintthat if I refused him, there would be hell to pay.

"I find myself lacking in clothing. The mass of idiots that worked at this Opera House last fall nearly destroyed everything I owned. I've had to wear tattered clothing, which I find unacceptable." He moved even closer and I could no longer even breathe without my breasts pressing to his chest in mock intimacy.

"Therefore, my industrious little seamstress,I want you to create for me four suits, much like the one I am currently wearing which your capable hands made. Four waistcoats, one black, one forest, one dark gold, one navy. Each suit will include a shirt to be made exactly like this one, and four cravats as well, black. You will also procure for me two sets of gold cuff links and one cravat pin, also gold. And I believe, one more set of gloves, much like these." He lifted the hand at my waist and trailed one finger down my temple and to my lips. "Leather, the finest you can manage." My eyes slid closed as his thumb swept across my bottom lip. I caught myself, and reopened them glaring at him.

He chuckled softly, an altogether menacing sound. "We all let our masks slip, don't we, Genn." He lowered his head, his eyes becoming dark and glinting beneath his heavy lids. I knew he was going to kiss me and I traitorously felt my eyes slide slowly closed and my lips soften.

When his lips were but a bare touch away from mine, and I found myself wondering what I would do if he made to take me on the roof top, he whispered, "Au revoir, mademoiselle." And he shoved me away. I stumbled and tripped on my skirts landing hard on my bottom. When I looked up in outrage at his audacity, he was gone.

I stood, brushing my cloak and skirts, my breath slowly coming back, my heart calming, and I realized with shock that I didn't know whether I was relieved or disappointed that he had not closed the distance between my mouth and his.

I covered my mouth, holding back a sob. _Why me? Why did you choose me to manipulate?_

As I sunk to the cold ground and began to sob aloud I realized that I was the only one who had a past that he could use. I had stepped into this Opera house, the perfect pawn in his game.

I wondered where this could possibly lead and to what consequences.

Marie and Jeanette found me in the hallway outside my chamber, pulling the key from my cloak.

My hair was mussed and my face was still flushed from crying in the air that had rapidly chilled since_he_ had left me. I raised my red rimmed eyes to them. They came forward with a concerned cry.

"Genevieve! What ever is the matter?" Marie took my cold hands between her warm ones and gently squeezed.

"You look terrible! Have you been crying!" Jeanette came behind her sister, putting her hands on Marie's arms. I looked into their innocent cornflower blue eyes and knew I couldn't taint them with devastating events of the night out of their presence. I took a breath and plastered a sunny smile on my face.

"Oh, no! I'm perfectly fine! I'm afraid that after you left with your beaus, it turned quite windy and chilly. It fairly burned my eyes. But the view was so lovely, I didn't want to leave."

I finished, sighing happily while inside I was groaning at how contrived the story sounded. But both the girls, so artless and innocent of the deception of others, immediately brightened and exclaimed over how happy they were that I was not upset.

"Oh, but Genevieve, you missed dinner. We took our picnic to the cafe after we could not find you, and I'm afraid Jean and Pierre ate your portion."

I was hungry, but the Opera cafe was already closed at this late hour and I did not have the stomach to steal for myself. I would have to remain hungry until morning when I could go down and have my habitual coffee and brioche. I smiled and reassured the twins that I would be fine. They reluctantly left me to seek their own beds at the other end of the corridor and I wearily turned into my room.

My eyes were immediately drawn to the dresser where a plate sat, a chunk of bread, a wedge of cheese, and some grapes arranged upon it, with a glass of red wine sat beside. A black edged envelope and a rose sat propped against the glass.

_I could not allow my favorite seamstress to become weak with hunger, now could I?_

_O.G._


	11. Chapter Ten

**Chapter 10**

I awoke slowly the next morning, my eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness of the room. I glanced over and looked at the clock. 7 o'clock, but it was Sunday and we were to be given a day of rest and relaxation today. I had no need to rush to the costume department.

I stretched over and turned up the small gas lamp by my bedside and the room filled with the soft glow. Flopping onto my back, I kicked off the sheets and stared at the ceiling. It had been a long, restless night. I'd tossed and turned frequently in my little bed, until the linens had wound up tight about me and I'd had to wake and untangle my long limbs from the winding sheets. My thin cotton shift was hiked up to my upper thighs from the battle with my sleepless night. I felt no inclination to move. No inclination to get up and start on the task which I knew lay before me. It was my day off, but I would be sewing today.

I mumbled several curses under my breath thinking of the night before. I'd once again given in to my hateful weak side and simply stood before him, trembling, letting him give me my orders as I was nothing more than the slave, he the pasha. Even worse, last night, in my sleep, I'd dreamed of him.

And not dreams of tossing him off that roof and letting him make his own bloody suits.

Of all the disgusting, loathesome things my mind could have dreampt up, this was undoubtedly the worst.

In my dreams, I'd been sleeping and he'd come in the room, silently through the mirror and stood over me until I awoke. Once I was looking at him, he ordered me to undress in that low, compelling voice, and I'd obeyed blindly without thought. The rest of the dream followed as suit, with us writhing on the bed, him dominant and forceful, me weak and gasping with pleasure. When I'd awoken, I'd nearly ordered a bath, so disgusted I was with myself.

I'd never dreamed of making love to a man before. God knows I'd never even exprerienced the act. Every intimate moment of my marriage had been forced upon me without my even having a chance to ready myself. I'd never lain and moaned and gasped with ecstacy; I didn't even know what it felt like in relation to a man.

Why I dreamed of him, I knew not. Perhaps it was the way he had touched me last night on the rooftop. I'd rarely been held or caressed before, it had been something I'd enjoyed, despite my shame over it. And when he had nearly kissed me, I'd found myself anticipating the press of his lips, the sweep of his tounge. When it hadn't happened, I'd had to be honest with myself later, and admit that I'd wanted it. No doubt after the kiss, I probably would have struck him for his audacity, but never the less...

_You can't just lay here all day!_ I finally sat up and swung my bare legs over the bed, standing and letting my shift slide back to my ankles. I glanced over at the dresser and and the empty plate and wine glass that sat there. Another mystery: why, after toying with me on the rooftop and then viciously throwing me to the ground, did he bring me some of his own food and wine? He truly couldn't be concerned over my well being could he?

_Of course, he can you stupid woman! You can't verywell makehis precious suits if you're fading away, now can you?_

"Bastard," I spat at the plate. Let him take his false kindness elsewhere.

_You ate the food and drank the wine._

Of course I did! I might as well have, seeing as how if I didn't, he probably would have stormed in and forced it down my throat after the trouble he went through to bring it.

Turning away from the plate, I gazed at the wall mirror. Walking over, I sunk and kneeled before it, before settling on my ankles. I looked at myself.

My hair lay heavy about my shoulders and to my waist, tossled about my head. My pale brown eyes which usually bright and clear in my face, smudged underneath with dark circles. My pale oval face was even more pale this morning as it had been for the past couple of days. The thin smattering of childish freckles, which I had always hated, now stood out in stark relief. My narrow thin nose was slightly swollen from crying last night, and my lips were swollen for an odd reason, probably from my dream. Over the low cut of my shift I could see the returning swells of my breasts from eating so well over the last two weeks, but my collar bone still appeared sharp, the hollows of my throat clearly visible. I looked awful.

Who had I become? The last two days had been so hard on me after two weeks of contented living here at the Opera. I had barely slept, and when I did, disturbing images like the dream of last night entered my mind. The fight had gone out of my eyes and the steel had left my backbone. I worried constantly what would happen if I didn't please this mysterious man who now controlled my fate. I wondered if he knew what he was doing to me?

Gazing back into the mirror, my face set into hard lines. Today was my day off, and here I was, about to go out and use my own money that I'd worked so hard for over the last weeks to buy material and _golden_ cufflinks and a _golden _cravat pin in order to turn him out in style. I wanted to stomp my feet and cry like a child. But I wouldn't. If this was what it took to live my life in any semblance of peace, than this is what I would do.

I stood and got dressed.

An hour later, after breakfasting in the cafe, skipping the brioche and settling for a day old croissant instead to make sure I had enough funds to buy his highness' list of demands, I left for the shops scattered among the streets of Paris. I had decided that I would have to buy the material for his suits: I would _not_ steal from the Opera in order to clothe him.

In a modiste's supply shop, I purchased several yards of black Bath superfine, crisp white linen, and four colors of brocade, with a small amount of black satin lining to back the waistcoats with. The materials came to a ridiculous amount, but once I mentioned that I was the assistant to Madame Lefevre, a good friend of the older lady keeping the shop, she gave me a generous discount and an order to give her old companion a greeting. I left, with about three quarters of my nest egg gone.

I continued on my way, carrying the brown parcel of material under one arm and directions to a men's shop in my hand.

The spicy sent of pipe smoke greeted me as I entered the small shop, and I suddenly realized the risk I was taking in order to buy my Phantom his more expensive pieces.

The shop contained a handful of well dressed gentlemen milling about, talking and selecting pieces from the various cases. I recognized a few of them as acquaintences of Armand's, two of them were from noble houses who had frequented our drawing room many at time.

The minute the door had tinkled above me, they had all glanced my way. I lowered my head, my heart pounding furiously in my throat. I demurely walked into the shop, keeping my eyes lowered behind my spectacles. The dress I wore, thankfully, was a very simple blue walking dress, more in keeping with a merchant's wife or clergyman's wife rather than that of a noblewoman. My hair was bound back tightly underneath the matching bonnet I wore, and when they all glanced away after their eyes roved my figure, I barely restrained my sigh of relief.

I walked to the case of cufflinks, keeping my eyes downcast. A young clerk appeared at my side and gestured to the parcel.

"May I take that for you, madame?"

"Yes, thank you," I said softly, raising my eyes to his to give him a smile. He nodded and took the package behind the counter.

"May I help you madame?" Another clerk this one older, approached from behind the counter. I raised my head and smiled slightly, keeping my body turned away from the gentlemen behind me.

"Yes, I need two pairs of gold cufflinks, Monsieur." He removed a tray from the case and laid it atop the counter. I stared down at them, not knowing which ones to choose. The cufflinks I'd supplied for the suit I'd shown the managers had been simple ones, flat gold disks. I'd seem them winking in the moonlight last night when the masked man had raised his gloved hand to caress my cheek. Glancing about, I found ones of the same style. I pointed. "Two pairs of those, please."

"Right away." He took the small pieces and wrapped them securely in tissue paper then slipped them into black velvet boxes. "Will there be anything else, madame?"

I gave him my request for a plain, gold cravat pin and he supplied that as well, packaging it in the same black velvet box.

When he gave me my total, I blanched. I was short by five small francs! I searched frantically through the small reticule I carried, but I could find no other monies. I looked up embarassed, into his disapproving eyes. "I think I'll have to put back one pair of the links."

He frowned and began unwrapping them.

Suddenly a white gloved hand stayed him.

"Wait. Let me take care of it for the lady."

I turned and looked into the soft green eyes of Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny. He smiled gently at me, and pulled a five franc note from his wallet and handed it to the clerk, then handed me the small black box. "I hope your husband enjoys it, Madame." With that, he gave me a very correct bow and left my side to go back over to his friends. But as I was quickly asking for my parcel so I could leave as soon as possible and get out of the shop - Raoul was the younger brother of Phillipe, the Comte de Chagny, a good friend of Armand's - he turned back to me, a curious expression on his face. I froze. He began to walk back over. The clerk handed me my parcel of material, and I took it quickly and rushed to the door, throwing a thanks over my shoulder to Raoul. When I looked back, he was following me, the curious look turning to one of concern. I burst out of the door, my heart beginning to race again and hurried down the street as fast as I could.

A hand grabbed me and turned me about. I gasped, ready to see the anger in his face that Armand de Bouvieux's former wife had dared to show herself in public after the scandal.

"You left your reticule, madame." He held out my small bag and I gingerly took it from him, my cheeks turning scarlet, embarassed as I had never been before. I met his gaze and smiled gently, keeping my voice low and submissive.

"Th..thank you, my lord." I curtsied before him and then turned to hurry off back to the Opera, leaving the young man behind me with a very perplexed look on his face.

I entered the Opera House, which was silent and empty, all the staff gone to enjoy the day. I sagged wearily onto the steps of the Grand Staircase.

I knew how fortunate I had been that Raoul had not recognized me. He had been to our house many a time with his older brother. The last time he'd brought a beautiful, delicate looking young lady who he introduced as his wife. I hadn't at the time made the connection between Christine and the scandal surrounding the Opera House. Armand had forbade me having friends and reading the news sheets. He had constantly said that knowledge was useless to a woman. I still remember the way Christine had looked at me after Armand had verbally scolded me for asking a question at the dinner table. Her doe brown eyes had softened toward me and she'd looked at me so sadly, I'd shook my head slightly. There was no point in her coming to my defense: it would only make things worse on me later. As it was that night Armand had beat me withinan inch of my life than used me until I had not been able to walk the next day. It was one of the last fights before I'd had that fateful meeting with my lawyer.

Remembering my screams of agony that night, I grew more and more upset as I thought about the risk that I had taken to get the Opera Ghost's materials for his suits.

When I made my way to my room and found him there, reclining on _my _bed, all my fear of him left me.

"I see you've returned from your little shopping trip, my dear Genn. I take that you will start on my list as soon as possible." With his one hand toying with mytiny bottles of oil and the other behind his head on my pillow, he gave me thatknowing smirk with those sinful lips and I felt the dam break.

Shrieking, I threw the parcels at his accursed head.

"You make your own suits, you arrogant bastard!"


	12. Chapter Eleven

He ducked and stared with a unbelieving look at the parcels on the floor. Then he slowly turned toward me, his long frame still stretched out on the bed. He was wearing immaculate black trousers, a white lawn frilled shirt tucked in but the first several buttons undone and for a moment, I stared at the exposed V of broad muscular chest and dark, crisp curling hair. I'd never seen a man's bare chest: Armand had always had me with his clothes still on and never bothered to even remove his trousers. It had felt even more insulting and cruel somehow.

I shook my head, the memories dissapating, and I strode into the room, slamming the door shut behind me. His face turned hard and he moved to stand up, no doubt to push me to some wall, and intimidate me with his nearness. I held up a restraining hand.

"No, please don't trouble yourself on my part! I mean to make your dear suits, but I should think that you would find it interesting that I met your good friend, Raoul de Chagny in the shop where I bought your cufflinks and pin." I turned away from him, breathing hard, removing my bonnet and resting it on a shelf in my wardrobe. When I turned back, he was behind me, the visible side of his face as hard and cold as the masked one. He stepped close, looming over me and I caught his exotic scent, but I stepped around him before it could intoxicate me. He followed, gripping my elbow and turning me roughly to him.

"Was Christine with him?" He asked, his eyes blazing hot.

"No, she was not, he was alone." I shrugged away from him angrily. I unbuttoned the jacket of my walking dress and slipped it off my shoulders. My arms became caught, though and he came behind me and removed it completely. "Thank you." Then,I whirled back to him realizing what he'd done. "Don't you help me!" I ripped the jacket out of his grasp and took it to the wardrobe, hanging it up and sending the wooden hangers swinging wildly. "Incidentally, Raoul's older brother is a very close acquaintance of my former husband's. Do you know what would have happened if he had recognized me? You would have been without your little puppett and I would have been dead by night fall." I took a deep breath after my little tirade and turned to find him, an ironic expression on his beautiful face.

"A wife is no good to her husband if she's dead." He smirked, his lips forming that expression that made my lips throb at the same time it made my palms itch.

"Believe me, monsieur. I would be _best_ dead to my husband. I humiliated him when I left him." I turned toward the bed and sat, to begin unwrapping my parcels. It would be best to start today, the sooner I would be able to hand him the suits and be done with him, albeit temporarily. I couldn't help but notice his scent lingered in the warmth of the sheets, and my dream came unbidden to my mind.

"Any husband who is cuckolded by his wife would be humiliated," he said scornfully.

My head snapped up. "Cuckolded?" I whispered.

"Why else would you divorce a _handsome_," he spat the word," wealthy husband who could give you anything you wanted if not for a lover. Did your lover scorn you and your little divorce was in vain?" He smiled coldly, his voicegoing contemptuous.

I stood and slowly walked to him. Once I stood before him I struck him across the cheek as hard as I could. The slap of palm against flesh rang out in the room.

I was breathing raggedly and when he snarled and lunged to attack me I stopped him with my next words:

"You don't_know _me. Don't you presume to think I was _ever_ unfaithful to Armand! Even ifI had wanted, I would have never had the chance! I was a prisoner in that _handsome_, wealthy man's home. I divorced him because of his treatment of me."

I turned back to the bed, outrage and sorrow that many shared his misapprehension. No one except for the servants who would find me bloody and unconcious believed me.

From behind, I was pulled and slammed back into his chest, his breath hot in my ear.

"Do not ever raise your hand to me again if you value your life." He spoke through gritted teeth and I turned around to face him, breaking free of his grasp . I raised my eyes to him, to tell him the truth of what was the reality of my marriage to Armand, but the haunted look in his gold-green eyes, a strange vulerablility that I'd never dreamed existed, and the red print of my hand on his chiseled face stopped me.

I raised my hand hesitantly and touched his cheek, laying my palm along the masculine curve.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you." His cheek was warm and smooth under my hand. Armand had never let me touch him like this, and the intimacy of the moment made me suddenly nervous and I dropped my hand.

A strange light moved through the depths of his eyes before sinking below again. His jaw hardened and a tick appeared in his cheek.

"Don't you think that it's time you begin on my suits? You wouldn't wantme disappointed now, would you?" With that he left, the mirror sliding open at a touch of his hand that I didn't even register, and he was gone.

I looked at the piles of fabric on the bed and wondered who had really won this clash of wills.

That night, after having a light supper at the cafe, I found myself in the costume room alone with only a lamp for company, carefully stitching together a forest green satin brocade waistcoat for my Phantom. I had finished the other three earlier and they sat at my elbow, a neat pile of glistening antique gold, navy and black. The trousers, tailcoats, and shirts I would finish later.

Soon the green waistcoat was done as well, and I arranged it on top of the others. Across the room, I got a glimpse of myself. Since there was no one about, I'd let my hair down out of the painful coiffure it had been in, pinning it back from my face loosely. My eyes were bloodshot from staring at the stitching for the last several hours and a headache pounded at my temples.

I wanted nothing more than to crawl into my warm little bed down the corridor and sink into a dreamless sleep. With no images of a dark, enigmatic masked man who both frightened and drew me, roused in me fear, anger, and the unfamiliar and unexplored desire to know physical joys..

I closed my eyes and for one moment allowed myself to think about what it would be like to have a man touch me with_my_ pleasure in mind, to hold me under him, and kiss me, caress me, until I knew that my body could accept his invasion, and then surrender to him. Would I simply lay there and languish in it, or would I take an active role and maybe plead for him to love me in different ways. The thought of it, of actually giving myself willingly and letting someone so intimately know me was a frightening thought. Deep down, I knew that I could never forget the pain of what I'd experienced in Armand's bed.

When I opened my eyes, I noted that it was almost midnight. With a sigh, I gathered my materials and finished garments, turned down the lamp and left the room.

Once in my room, I undressed with the lamp turned downand slipped into my bed.

When I dreampt, it was of a strong body surrounding me in utter darkness, loving me, and the smell of wood and candlesmoke and spice scenting the air.


	13. Chapter Twelve

**Chapter 12**

The following morning found Jeanette, Marie, Madame Lefevre, and myself sitting comfortably in the auditorium, watching the first round of dress rehearsals.

We sat toward the back, to better see the result of our work on the stage. It was critical to observe if the garments moved and hung the correct way. Especially the dancers whose movements could be greatly hampered by an ill fitting ensemble.

The ballet department was on stage, swirling about, their movements graceful and precise. Long slender arms curved sensually, tiny feet rose into impossible _pointes_, long legs were posed behind their willowly frames in such manners, that I wondered if I could ever form my own body to work in such a way. I pictured my tall self trying to leap and swirl about the stage, and choked back a laugh. I would dwarf the petite little dancers by several inches.

The fruit of our labors moved about beautifully, the aqua chiffon floating through the air before settling after each movement. The scarlet sashes were an especially visual touch as La Sorelli and her partner danced a stunning sensual _pas de deux _upon the stage and she threaded the fabric through her long arms and about his neck.

Beside me, Jeanette giggled into her hand as the two dancers twined their bodies together at one point. I glanced over at her and eyed her over my spectacles. She giggled again.

"What," I whispered in my best censorious voice, "is so very entertaining?" I arched a brow at her and she leaned with a conspirational look on her face.

"Marie kissed Phillipe de Crux last night on the rooftop. She said he's a horrible kisser." She leaned closer, he face lighting with unholy glee. "He shoved his tongue down her throat and she fairly gagged." She collapsed back into her chair with waterfall of musical giggles.

My widened eyes found Marie's, who blushed deeply. I reached over and pulled the girl's face back to my gaze.

"Marie!" I hissed, "That's what you get for kissing men you barely know, you wicked girl!" But I could barely breathe I was restraining so much laughter. I remember being sixteen and sneaking a kiss from a sinfully handsome stable boy at my parent's chateau in the country and he'd done the same thing. My reaction had been much the same. _My first kiss._ Not something to immortalize forever, no doubt.

On the stage, there was a clearing of throats as Msrs. Firmin and Andre strode onto the stage with a fretful Monsieur Reyer behind him. I raised my brows at Madame Lefevre and she shrugged her shoulders in a wondering gesture.

"May I have all your attention please? Please, up here. Thank you." Monsieur Andre strutted to the edge of the stage looking like nothing more than a rooster with that pompadour he wore his hair in. "As you know, when the, ahem, _events_ of last year took place, we lost a great deal of our patronage. Indeed, most of it. But recently Msr. Firmin and myself were approached by two worthy gentlemen who would very much like to be the charter patrons of this rebirth of the Opera Populaire!" He finished with a dramatic flourish, and the auditorium broke out in applause. I heard the nasal voice of La Carlotta lash out: "It's about time!"

Monsieur Richard stepped up beside Monsieur Andre. "Yes, such good news! When the Opera opens it doors for the first time for this new season in two weeks, sitting in the Grand Tier Boxes will be two of our society's most estimable nobleman with a generous backing for the next two years!"

Around us, applause rang out again. I sat still in my seat, my mirth of earlier forgotten.

_Please don't let Armand be one of them._

Later, the four of us were on stage ourselves, Marie and Jeanette fitting the bodice of the alto while she sang her aria, Madame adjusting a headdress of one of the tenors, and myself in the enviable position of kneeling before Carlotta Guidacelli, hemming the train that she'd just stepped on and torn, blaming it on another, of course.

I sat on my knees my dove gray skirts spread about me, in stark contrast to the vivid rose of the gown I was repairing. Above me, Carlotta made sniping comments about the alto who was singing, not even attempting to keep her voice low as not to be heard.

I bit down hard onto my lip to keep from telling her to quiet. Madame Antoinette Jean's voice was low, pleasant, and rich to listen to. Carlotta could do with biting her tongue and listening herself. Her own singing was tolerable enough, but at some points, I surely believed my ears would begin bleeding.

Above me she stopped backbiting for one moment and looked down at my form below her.

"You take too long, why? I have things to do."

I closed my eyes, breathing deeply and then looking up at her. "Madame, I'm afraid your hem was torn rather raggedly. It's not a clean stitching. I shall be done here in a moment." I looked back down at my work. She stamped her foot without warning, jarring my hands, and the needle ripped into my finger, sending blood spraying.

I clutched my hand with a cry, holding down the ripped section of skin, and pressing to stop the blood flow. _Damn her!_

Above me, Carlotta swooped down and slapped the side of my face harshly, screaming about ruining her gown.

I was on my feet in an instant. She took a step back from me, forgetting my height, and clutching the arm of the maid behind her. I stepped up to where I was eye to eye with her.

"How dare you!" I hissed quietly in her face, as not toattract attention. "I told you to be patient! If you had not moved, as I'd warned you _not _to, this wouldn't have happened." I shoved my blood dripping fingers below her eyes and she blanched at the amount. My hand was throbbing mercilessly. "And I made that dress, Madame, and I can certainly fix it, but you'll have to just _wait_ because I need to do some stitching on my _flesh!_"

Suprisingly, no one had noticed the interaction except for her maid who handed her the small white poodle to calm her.

She mumbled, "I..I didn't mean to harm you." She appeared almost sorry for a moment.

I gave an exapserated low scream and turned, stalking off the stage, with blood trailing behind me.

In the empty costume room, I took a basin of cool water set into an alcove for accidents of the like and poured a large amount into a small bowl and carried it over to a table. I sunk my hands into the bowl and thewater turned scarlet with my blood. I winced as the ragged tear in my finger caught against my other hand, and more blood filled the bowl.

After washing off all the blood, I lifted my hand and examined the two inch long rip in the seam of my skin on my finger. Thankfully it had been my left hand injured and not my right. With many costumes left to make and alter and my own midnight oil that I burned making my blackmailer's suits, I couldn't suffer having my good hand damaged.

I gathered a pair of tiny scissors, delicate but strong black thread, and a needle with a razor sharp point. I had no time to go to a doctor to have my finger stitched; my depletion of funds did not help either; a doctor cost money.

I stared with apprehension at the gruesome task before me, but I picked up the needle, steeling myself, and began to thread it.

A leather clad hand stayed mine and took the needle from myfingersand laid it down.

"Let me, mademoiselle." He said, soft and low behind me. I glanced up, my pulse traitorously picking up speed as he lowered himself to the chair beside me, clad in elegant black and crimson,his masked face sensually beautiful in the low lamp light. He smiled slightly, just a curving of his lips, but enough to make my heart turn in my chest.

"You'll get blood on your suit," I said quietly, letting my eyes meet his. He leaned forward slightly and gently removed my spectacles from my face and set them aside.

"What a tragedy that would be, since your very capable hands made it." He stood and removed his leather gloves one by one, laying them on a chair behind them. "I suppose them I should be in my shirtsleeves." He reached up and unpinned the black cravat, and undid the intricate folds of material until it fell from around his neck.

I kept my eyes on a point below his chin, almost unseeing. "Yes, I suppose you should." My own voice had become low and soft as I watched him remove his tails, the movement of him leaning his arms back causing the waist coat and white shirt to stretch tight across the broad expanse of his chest. He undid the waistcoat, and slipped it off, then unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them up his forearms. I studied beneath my lashes the first sight of his ungloved hands.  
They were large, but with long beautiful fingers, strong joints, and connected to masculine wrists.

He sat backdown once he had removed all but his shirt and gently took my injured hand in his, examining the wound. I prayed that he wouldn't feel my pulse fluttering beneath his thumb, which caressed my wrist as he turned my hand this way and that.

He looked up at me, his eyes filled with a fleeting emotion I couldn't place.

"You're fortunate the needle did not become lodged and break off underneath the skin. I would have to perform minor surgery. As it is, this is going to be uncomfortable. I can bring something to dull the pain."

I shook my head. I'd endured stitchings before with no laudauman.

"Brave girl," he whispered and reached out a finger to trail down my cheek. I quelled my reaction, but barely.

With that, he reached for the needle and holding my hand firmly, began to sew the ragged edges of skin together. I winced slightly as the needle pricked the tender flesh, but he crooned softly to me and tenderly stroked my wrist with his thumb as he worked.

When he was done, he snipped the thread off with the scissors and raised my hand to press a kiss in my palm. I almost moaned.

He stood, reached for my spectacles and gently put them back on my face. I adjusted them, not wanting to meet his gaze for a moment until I had composed myself.

He shrugged gracefully into hiswaistcoat and buttoned it back up. As he dressed, I was aware that his eyes never left my face. As he once again donned the black leather gloves, the air in the room seemed to chill once more. I looked up at him, and saw the familiar cold, assessing gaze with just a touch of heat return to his gold green eyes. He smirked icily, and stepped around me, heading toward the large mirror at the other side of the costume room.

"Now, Mademoiselle Genn, I think it best that you return to my stage and finish your duties. Afterall," he tossed over his shoulder, only revealing the cold, white mask and masculine jaw, "you have a great deal of sewing to do tonight, don't you?"

He raised his hand to activate the mechanism which I never managed to see.

I stopped him by standing up and asking him a question:

"What is your name?" I whispered it softly.

He did not move for several long moments, but then met my eyes in the mirror.

"Erik."

And he was gone.


	14. Chapter Thirteen

I sat on the floor of my room, in my thread bare dressing gown and shift until the strike of midnight, completing the last of his shirts, the linen crisp, the dress ruffles precise and falling softly. When worn alone, the opening of the shirt would part to the very bottom edge of his chest, when worn with the waistcoats and cravats, it would come to his throat, exactly as the shirt I had sewn for my interview with the Opera did. The shirt he now had in his possession.

_Erik._

I whispered his name softly into the room, my fingers momentarily holding the shirt close. In only a few days, the fabric would hold his warmth and his scent.

I met my eyes in the mirror. Why did he have this effect on my person? When out of his presence, I remembered the fact that he was a murderer, an extortionist, and that he held my life in his hands and could destroy it if he so chose. But when he stood near me, I seemed to forget, as if the knowledge had never been mine to begin with. My mind rebelled against being affected by him, but my body obeyed my senses. I was not in love with him, not by any stretch. But I could no longer deny that he made me feel things that I never had, crave things I'd never known, want what I could never experience.

I could never love another man. I wasn't a complete woman and I never would be. There was a dark, empty void inside of myself that Armand had created. He had taken my love, my innocence as a young bride, and twisted it, taking my soul along with it, and then had handed it back to me, a broken thing. Ten years of struggling to not anger him, to respond to him as a wife should, and failing had completely destroyed my ability to let myself love another. The thought of making myself vulnerable to any man, whether physically or emotionally, terrified me.

I thought of Erik, bent over my hand, his dark hair glossy in the glow of the lamp, his lips set in concentration, the slight lines around his eyes deepened by his intent, the sight of his chest, revealed by the gaping shirt, rising and falling in time with his slow breaths. Then the way he had raised my palm to his lips, the press of their firm warmth, the slight, moist sensation of his hot breath as he'd lifted his head, the way his eyes, fathomless golden green, so intense, had looked into mine.

I knew that it was only another form of intimidation, of manipulation. He thought me a loose woman because of my divorce, as everyone else did. Perhaps he wondered if I would trade my body for his silence.

I looked once more into the mirror. I did not understand it. In comparison to Christine Daae, the woman who had first captivated him, I was sadly lacking. I was not delicate, ethereal, virginal, or a ravishing, piquant beauty who captured the interest of every man in the room. I had been told that I was attractive in a intelligent way, and I knew that I had reached the age of thirty with only slight laugh lines about my eyes and still maintained the firm curves of my face and body, but I did not inspire the protective desire that Christine had in men, including Erik and Raoul.

But perhaps having me would be vengenance against the child who had chosen another. I had no doubt, that if Erik demanded a higher price for keeping me away from Armand and protecting my life here at the Opera, that it would be Christine he would picture as he took me.

The terrified part of me feared, that even if I gave myself willingly to him, it would still be her name he would cry out.

With that sobering thought to keep my resistance strong, I folded the shirts neatly and set them upon my vanity chair, turned down the lamp till the room was dark, and retired to bed.

The next morning and afternoon flew by. I repaired Carlotta's dress, cutting off the swatch of fabric stained with my blood and adding a flounce to disguise the added material. When I presented it to her for her approval, and her eyes caught the black stitches laced through my finger, she was exceedingly amiable. _Serves her well to remember that incident._

The last adjustments were made to the ballet ensembles, and I rushed from each chorus member to another to schedule their final fitting, a notepad in my hand, a pencil behind my ear. All the costumes were then dispersed amongst the cast for another dress rehearsal, temporary pins holding the unfinished pieces together, with myself sitting on the floor backstage taking notes of what seemed to wear and perform well and what needed a slight adjustment.

At one point, Madame Giry appeared at my side, her hands on her hips watching her students, her shawl draped about her shoulders. I looked up at her and gave a distracted smile, then when back to my sketches.

"I meant to ask you, my dear," she began in her delicately accented voice, "how you came about the injury on your hand?" She took a moment to look at me, her face politely blank, but her eyes as always very cool.

I closed my pad, slid the pencil into my coronet and stood, brushing the dust off my black skirts and rolling down the sleeves of my white blouse. I turned to her, crossing my arms in front of my chest and rolling my eyes.

"Oh, a very silly accident, I assure you. I was hemming Carlotta's costume yesterday and she grew impatient and stamped her foot. The needle ripped my skin." I looked down at the stitches. The redness had slowly disappated and it was no longer itching quite so horribly as it had yesterday as I'd finished my work. "It seems to be healing nicely, though."

She nodded, her eyes remaining on mine. She looked away flipping her long chestnut braid over one shoulder, watching her dancers with sharp eyes. I relaxed, my shoulders drooping slightly. What was it about her that could make a thirty year old woman feel like nothing more than a stuttering school girl caught under the stairway, kissing a boy she ought not. That odd feeling of having to be on my best behavior about her had not diminished since coming here.

"I've noticed the light underneath your door at late hours, Genevieve, these last few nights. What has you burning your midnight oil?" She didn't bother to look at me as she asked.

My mind felt sluggish as I struggled for a reply. It was true that I'd been awake up until midnight or even later, trying to finish Erik's suits before I tried his patience, and with my early rising at six o'clock every morning to work more on them before I was due in the costume room at eight, I'd had a lack of sleep that was making my face drawn and my eyes ache. I'd taken to putting cool damp rags under my eyes to take down the puffiness, sneaking flesh colored creme from the makeup pallets to apply over the shadows and drinking an extra cup of coffee every morning in order to stay alert. I had believed myself to have been appearing perfectly normal to everyone. And perhaps I had, but Madame Giry seemed to have seen straight through to my deception.

"I have been reading. I'm afraid that before I came here, I'd never indulged much in the luxury of curling up with a good book and the lending library has been a favorite haunt of mine." The falsehood rolled off my tongue with ease, but I felt no better for it. What I would have given to never have to lie again!

"Well, my dear," she turned towards me and began to walk slowly away, "let us hope that all your...reading...will not begin to affect your health. You are very well liked here, Genevieve. I would hate to see you be forced to leave due to not pleasing...someone." She disappeared into the darkness of the backdrops.

I turned back to the performers with blind eyes, feeling suddenly cold inside.

That night, the late hour once again found me in my room starting the first of the trousers of the suits for Erik, who had not bothered to make an appearance since our intimate moment in the costume room over a needle and thread.

I was still dressed, but was considering changing out of my blouse and skirts to my shift when a soft knock came at the door, followed by a series of giggles. I frowned._ Who would be out wondering the corridors at this hour?_ I quickly pushed my materials under the bed and stood.

When I unlocked the doors I was surprised to see the twin faces of Jeanette and Marie, smiling with some obviously mischevious plan in their young minds.

"What in heaven's name are you _doing?_" I asked opening the door wider to let them in, but instead was pulled out by each arm to a girl.

Marie giggled behind her hand.

"We're going onto the roof to drink a bottle of wine and talk and gossip all night."

I stared at her, my eyes wide behind my spectacles.

"_Why?_" I'd never heard a more hairbrained idea.

Jeanette answered. "We do it once a month, well, until the Opera closed, that is. But now that we are here once again, we're going to take the tradition back up."

"It's just a silly little thing, but we've always done it, but _please_ don't tell Madame, she'd have our heads." Marie pleaded.

"The dancers never join us, they're too busy ninnnying about with the patrons and each other. And the singers would turn us away in a moment. Singers do not socialize with the staff. Well, except perhaps Christine, but only because she was a dear creature."

"We've no one else to join us, but since you've come, and you're so very practical and serious much of the time, we thought, "let's take dear Genevieve with us on our night and give her some fun", so there, you have to join us. To do otherwise would simply be churlish." Marie smiled widely at me, her cornflower blue eyes sparkling.

I sighed and looked into my room, at the bed, where I knew my task awaited, then at the mirror , wondering if my captor stood behind it, silently daring me to disobey him.

I tipped my nose up at my reflection. He could hardly swoop down upon me while I was with the twins and drag me back to the room to punish me for my audacity.

I looked back at them, smiling. "Let me get my cloak."

An hour later, I laid flat on back, one hand on my stomach, one over my mouth, laughing so hard tears rolled down my cheeks and into my ears. The twins, one on her stomach, her feet kicking lightly in the air, the other in the same position as I, but across from me, were giggling uncontrollably.

I was wonderously, gloriously _drunk._ And I had never felt better. My mind felt curiously detached as if watching myself from a distance, but I could not have cared less.

Marie, Jeanette, and I had not drunk one, but _three_ bottles of wine amongst ourselves. I had never drunk much more than a glass of wine or champagne at a time, and the incredibly warm, heavy sensation flowing through my limbs was novel, indeed.

We had sat up here, a large, discarded curtain beneath us that had been singed by the fire last year, the nightsky above us, filled with countless stars, Apollo's Lyre a towering gray presence, and talked, of all things, about our fellow inhabitants of the Opera. The girls had told me hilarious stories of the ballet girls and their numerous exploits and conquests among the patrons and stage hands. Of walking in on many lover's trysts in the various alcoves and dark corners and who the said lovers had been. I'd felt my eyes widen incredulously at many of the idenities, one of the most shocking Lisette, a particularly saucy little piece, and Monsieur Firmin.

Then as the wine had begun to flow more freely and our tongues had loosened considerably, we had taken to making fun of the mannerisms of others, particularly the ones we didn't care for. We now were reduced to hurling insults at each other, mocking the voices of them.

I rose from the curtain, swaying slightly on my feet, _oh this was great fun_, and kicking my skirts behind me with dramatic flourish. I put one hand in the air, a commanding gesture, and the other on my hip. I looked down at my nose at the snorting twins, and narrowed my eyes to little slits.

"You are laughing at me, why? Errrgh! No!" I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, pushing my hands down into the air. "I will not be laughed at! Get my doggy, I'm leaving! Bye-bye!" I stormed off, my hands waving , coloring the air with Italian curses.

"Carlotta!" Jeanette shrieked, standing and then falling back on her bottom.

"Oh, how I hate her!" laughed Marie.

I bent over giggling uncontrollably and collapsed into a heap of cloak and skirts, then crawled back over to them. I laid my head on the cool surface of the curtain and smiled contentedly.

The girls laughter finally subsided and they sighed softly with regret. "I suppose we need to be going," Jeanette stood,mumbling with disappointment. Marie made a sound of agreement. The girls stood, largely still able to walk with some sense of balance. They gathered up the empty bottles and turned to me. I was still blissfully unaware of the need to get up; as far as I was concerned, I could lay here all night, basking in the sensation of being unattached.

"Are you coming, Genevieve?" They began to walk away and I lifted my head to watch them.

"Yes," I laughed rolling onto my stomach and fiddling with my spectacles which I'd pushed up onto my crown. "In a moment, I need to get my bearings first." I turned tothem with an unconcerned smile. "Go ahead, I'll make my way down to my room in a moment."

They nodded, stumbling off happily, their giggles fading as they opened the door and it shut behind them.

I laid for a few moments more, staring dazedly at the stars overhead, then finally struggling to my feet. The rooftop immediately spun wildly, and I clutched at a nearby gargoyle for balance.

After the earth stopped its mad tilt, I walked slowly to the door, watching each step I took. _One, two, three, oh! _I nearly fell, but righted myself in time. _Four, five, six..._

Suddenly the door seemed very far away and my stomach very close to my throat.

I fell to my knees, retching violently.

The surges in my abdomen finally stopped and I ran a hand over my mouth, my face clammy and my body trembling uncontrollably. All my hilarity of earlier left me in a rush. _How stupid of you!_

I crawled away from the result of my excess and tried to stand, but couldn't. I fell back weakly and onto my bottom. _I'll never make it to the door._

My stomach heaved once again and I was sick. After it was over, I laid back down, my eyes and nose running. I couldn't tell whether my tears were the natural result of being ill or crying at how very foolish I had been and how horrible I felt. The night was growing colder by the second, and in this state I'd lay out here until I caught pneumonia. _How very stupid to die because of being drunk when you've got a death threat on your head! _I almost laughed, but my sobs choked me and I could not find it in myself to do so. The very real danger of the ridiculous situation was not lost on me.

I closed my eyes and struggled to once more get to my knees.

I was almost immediately surrounded by strong arms and lifted up, my face buried in a warm, solid, chest. I wrapped one arm about his neck as he lifted me a little higher and then stood.

"Erik?"

"Who else?"


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**Chapter 14**

I deeply regretted my indulgence later and for good reason.

As Erik carried me off the rooftop and down the stairs, I buried my face into his chest, my right hand clutching his cravat, my left curled about his shoulder. The tension thrumming through his body should have alerted me to fact that he was in a fine rage, but I was too grateful that someone, _anyone_, had found me before I succumbed to unconciousness and froze to death onthe roof.

Each door through which we had to pass, he kicked open savagely, juggling me in his arms, until I thought I might be ill again, but upon his coat. I whimpered into his chest and clutched him tighter as he strode down the corridor to my room. His hands had become vices, one at my ribs, one about my thighs. He burst through the door, nearly slamming my head into the frame and dropped me, none too gently upon the bed. I landed and curled into a ball, one hand over my revolving stomach, the other over my left temple, which had begun to pound with the procession of a thousand little dwarves, hammering at my skull from the inside out.

Erik went back to the door, slammed it, then snibbed the lock. The quiet sound was like a tolling bell, and even through my anguish upon the bed, I knew that my disobediance was not going to go unpunished. I stayed in my little ball, my eyes shut tightly, not wanting to see the rage and hatred on his face before he began to beat me.

I heard the heavy _whoosh _of fabric as his cloak landed on the floor without care. He was over my prone form on the bed in an instant, and the mattress sunk with his weight as he climbed on top of me, bracing his hands on either side of my head, his thighs widespread over my own. His body did not touch mine, but I felt the tightening of his muscles with every breath he took.

"Look at me," he growled harshly, the beauty of his voice turned to an ugly rasp. I shook my head, and curled even tighter into myself, unsure whether it was the pain or the blinding fear that drove me. I had begun to hope that this game of ours could be ended without him ever having to resort to violence, but the man above me was still a stranger, even though I felt as if the moment he had come through that mirror the first night was an age ago. Still in my weakened state from the alcohol and my subsequent illness, I began to cry quietly into my pillow, feeling like a fool.

"No! Don't sob like a stupid child. I've been patient with you so far, but you have sorely tried me this evening, my dear!" I couldn't possibly imagine a voice colder; I felt as if a hundred razor sharp knives were slashing at me. "Now, be wise and turn and look at me without sniveling like an idiot."

Beneath him, I swallowed thickly and rolled onto my back, my eyes still closed, willing my tears to stop. When I at last felt the control return over my sensibilities, I slowly opened my eyes and met his cruel gaze. His face could have been carved of stone, all the sensuality gone out of his lips, his eyes burning into mine.

For what seemed an eternity, he did not move, but stared unblinkingly at me under him. Then at last, he reached for my hands with his, capturing them, holding them tight in the black leather and pinning them above my head. I gasped as he nearly wrenched my arms out of their sockets with the savage movement. I had no time to prepare for the shock of his body lowering onto mine, pressing me deep into the mattress, the long hard length of him resting heavily upon my smaller, softer frame. I could barely draw breath without my ribs contracting painfully, and I became instantly aware again of how tall and large he was compared to me.

My traitorous side purred in feminine appreciation of his weight and solidity, and I ruthlessly quelled it. The look in his eyes was nothing but amorous.

"You directly disobeyed me. When I give you a command, you follow it. Your place was here, finishing my orders, and instead you were on the rooftop with those two stupid children, acting like a perfect simpleton."

I looked pleadingly at him, knowing that we were firmly in his territory, and in my vulnerable place beneath him, I was in no position to argue. If I did anything but beg for his mercy, he would surely find me not worth his trouble, and kill me or beat me. In that moment, when I'd looked defiantly into the mirror and chose to not meet his demands, I had made a stupid, rash decision.

"Erik, please," I whispered, barely able to draw breath, struggling not to cry, "I only wanted a rest. I've been working so hard on your suits, they're nearly done." I swallowed, and when he didn't interrupt, but continued to stare coldly, I pleaded with him. "I'll try harder, please. Give me another chance. I know I have a lot to lose."

"That is a fact that you may want to keep at the foremost of your mind the next time you choose to disobey me. I found it exceedingly tiresome to come to your aid once again." His eyes flicked to my fingers that were entangled with his. He was applying pressure to my bones to keep me still, and the stitches were throbbing mercilessly under his thumb. To my amazement, his fingers on my left hand gentled, and cradled my injured fingers softly. Would I ever understand how he could be so cruel and yet tender?

"Thank you," I whispered softly and I shifted beneath him to ease my ribs.

The instant I moved under him, his eyes suddenly changed, growing dark with an unnamed emotion. His body seemed to grow heavier and I was pressed deeper into the bed. I was unable to take my eyes away from him, as his owndrifted down to my mouth. My lips parted of their own volition and I felt my limbs grow heavy, though not with the effects of the wine. I once again felt the ache to know what I'd never received in my marriage, and all the consequences of such an action were drowned out as demons I didn't know I possesed began clamoring for attention.

His head lowered, his eyes drifting closed, and I dropped me gaze to his mouth, his lips parted, nearing mine. He was going to kiss me and I was going to let him. There was no turning back now, no use resisting.

Above me, he stilled and I heard his quiet curse. In an instant he was off me. Walking across the room, his right hand pressed to his temple covered by the mask, he stopped and braced his left hand against the frame ofthe mirror. I could see the tension in his long frame, and I was helpless to do anything. I knew what was going through his thoughts: I wasn't Christine and it was useless to pretend I was.

I stayed on the bed, my eyes not leaving him, feeling as if I was being pulled in a hundred ways at once. Fear, terror, fascination, desire were coursing through me.

Finally he straightened, his frame once again invested with that chilling elegance and aloofness. He retrieved his cloak, and swirled it, letting it settle about his shoulders before returning to the mirror.

"I suggest you undress and seek your rest. You will feel like death in the morning. And you have much still to do." And he was gone through the mirror in an instant.

He hadn't even looked at me.

I did feel like death in the morning, and when I arrived at the costume room late, Jeanette and Marie look shamefaced and haggard as well. Madame Lefevre sat in her chair, not raising her head to acknowledge me, but clucking with disapproval.

Three days went by and I did not see Erik. On Saturday morning when I laid the four completed suits before the mirror and waited, he did not appear.

When I returned to my room that night after my duties for the day were done. The suits were gone. Lying in their place was a note.

_I will inform you when next I am in need of your services. I suggest that you keep your silence and I shall keep mine. Do not forget that hell hath now wrath like a lover...or husband...scorned._

_I remain, ever your protector and keeper._

_Erik_

I refolded the note slowly and slipped back into the envelope. I met my eyes in the mirror and couldn't ignore the tears forming in them.

"I won't forget."


	16. Chapter Fifteen

**Chapter 15**

The days passed, one into another.

Each morning was filled with sitting hours in the costume room, adding the detail work onto each garment for Le Baudelaire. Tiny jewels, seed pearls, spangles, embroidery; it was painstakingly intricate work and our fingers grew red and swollen with constant pricking with the needles, our eyes dry and sore from staringso intently to ensure each stitch was perfect.

Each afternoon Madame Lefevre, Jeanette, Marie and I were at dress rehearsals, an endless process of repetition for the cast: an equally endless process of repairing ripped hems, torn flounces, robes that had been stretched too far over the wrong size gentlemen donning them. There were also numerous costume changes, and the rushing to be in the next scene on time caused several of the more delicate pieces to become ripped in various places. One gown I knew I had pieced the bodice back together at least on five different occasions.

Each evening, I spent reading in my room, curled upon my bed with the lamp lit well or visiting with Madame Lefevre, who was coaching me to take her place after she retired. I had my own ideas of how I believed the costuming department of the Opera Populaire could better function, and she listened quietly and with approval to many of my suggestions.

Erik had vanished. No visits, no dictorial letters, no accidental meetings upon the rooftop where I frequented when my little room grew too small and oppresive.

I could not interpret his absence. That moment on my daybed when he had come perilously close to kissing me had been the last time I'd seen him.

I had begun to believe that he had grown tired of his sport with me, and perhaps had found some other avenue to procure his demands.

The fact that I did not know whether I was relieved or disappointed was a highly disturbing one.

The threat of the new patrons quickly dissapated: Monsieurs Vourne and Fierre were barons and had not moved in the same circles as Armand and I.

My relationship with the other staff and cast and even managers of the Opera settled into familairity. Even Madame Giry had become more approachable as I'd proven myself as a capable woman who would not shy away from difficult tasks. Carlotta still remained as haughty as ever, but I did not worry it was any fault of mine: she treated everyone with contempt.

I still did not feel at ease enough to wear my hair out of the severe chignons or to discard my spectacles. They had become no longer a disguise to distract from my appearance, but part of my identity at the Opera. To _not_ wear them everyday would draw too much unwanted attention.

In no time at all, a week and a half had passed since my drunken mistake upon the rooftop and the morning of the Opening Night of Le Baudelaire and indeed the Opera Populaire itself, dawned clear and bright. There were to be no rehearsals: the stage was completely set and prepared, each scene's props, backdrops, and costumes arranged in waiting in the cavernous backstage area. The balconies, rafters, and catwalks were silent, and dark.

The Grand Foyer was brightly lit and the marble floors, columns, and stairs gleamed back shades of gold, ivory, and black. Flowers filled every urn. The golden statuaries were buffed to their highest finish.

In the auditorium itself, heavy silence laid siege. Each seat had been cleared of every speck of dust. All the brass and golden statuaries had were glowingthere as well. Each private box had been swept, the curtains hung with nary a wrinkle, and the seats laid with fresh, fluffed cushions.

With absolutely everything done and no tasks remaining, my morning and afternoon stretched before me. The thought of staying in my room, reading or staring at the mirror in silent reproach seemed a disheartening thought. I had taken an inventory of my meager wardrobe earlier in the week and I was inadequately prepared for winter, which was fast approaching, autumn already in its prime. The thought of simply spending an afternoon shopping, without having to sketch in my mind what I would make, but buying some garmentsfrom ashop directseemed a fine idea. After Le Baudelaire opened tonight and the weekend passed, we would be starting on the next opera's costumes. These three days of rest would be ruined if I was sewing my own winter wardrobe; purchasing a reasonably priced one seemed much more appealing. I had been saving my wages, not being forced to spend them on someone else, and the two weeks worth of pay would be enough to supply a modest selection of winter garments.

So the late morning found me stolling the shopping district of Paris, frequenting the less pricey modistes. In my bag clutched in my left hand, folded and wrapped neatly in band boxes were two wool gowns, one a soft lavender gray, the other a dusky apricot, a new black cloak with a warm, thick hood, and some thicker undergarments. Packaged the same way in the bag held in my right hand were two new heavier linen blouses, a full skirt of copper taffeta, and another skirt of dark green velvet. All the garments had been supplied by economical modistes, simply but well made, no frills or furbelows. An over abundance of lace, flounces, and bows, though the current rage, had never been my choice of clothing. Even when married and a Comtess of the highest social standing, subtle touches had always been my preference.

One more gown, perhaps a high collared one for especially cold days was all I had left on my list. I had just found the modiste Jeanette had referred to me as a particularly talented and reasonable one when the lady in question herself came trapising up the sidewalk with her twin in tow, both of the girls' arms flung with bags. We spotted each other and grinned.

An hour later, the three of us had enjoyed a simple lunch at an outdoor cafe, comparing our purchases and what was left to buy, when Marie's eyes widened and her voice lowered.

"Oooh, I don't believe I've ever seen such a _delicious_ man before!" She was goggling at a carriage that had stopped behind us across the street, her mouth formed into an appreciative smile. Jeanette leaned over to better see about myself, as I was facing the cafe. Her own eyes lit and she grinned coyly.

"I do believe you're right. He's positively _divine_!"

I sighed, placing my fork down on the plate. "You two are going to land yourselves in a heap of trouble, one day, do you know that?" I tipped Marie's mouth closed with my fingertips and brought Jeanette's brazen eyes to face mine. "You two don't want to develop a reputation about the Opera like Lisette or Jammes has, do you? You'll have every man in the place knocking down your door!" I picked my fork back up, feeling every inch the thirty years that I was. Hadn't my own mother had this same conversation with me once, as a flirtatious eighteen year old.

"Oh, Genevieve, you have to look at him, though. Just turn around and take a peek!"

"No, girls! It's ill-mannered to stare at gentlemen, _anyone_, for that matter."

"Oh, just turn about and look! He's not even facing us. He's too wrapped up in that little piece," Marie sneered scornfully.

I sighed plunking my fork down with an exasperated sound. I knew they wouldn't let me be until I looked.

I twisted slightly in my seat and peeked at the very amorous, well dressed couple in front of a jewelry store, the man pointing a white gloved hand to a large, emerald necklace. The woman, a stunningly beautiful redhead with a flawless complexion and large, pleading eyes, grasped the man's hand tightly, nodding. The man, still gazing at the elegant necklace, laughed softly and stroked the lady's cheek with tenderness. She leaned into his hand, her eyes soft and dewy.

"Girls, I think _that _is a lost cause. He's obviously very much in love with that gorgeous redhead." I turned to look at them with a helpless shrug, then turned back to the happy couple, feeling a little envious of the affection running between them. The man finally faced the woman.

_Oh, God._

It was Armand.

I stood, nearly knocking the little cafe table over, sending the water glasses spilling liquid over the table cloth. The girls exclaimed in shock as I searched for the quickest escape.

"Genevieve! Whatever is the ...?"

"I have to go! I'm sorry!" I backed away from the table and the suprised looks on the twins's faces. Then I ran.

I ran until my lungs ached and I could no longer squeeze through the throngs of shoppers without striking or knocking someone to the ground. Once the way was clear again, I hurried down a back alley, a short cut to the Opera. I ran with my skirts and cloak billowing out behind me, my hair coming out of its moorings and tumbling to my shoulders. I didn't dare stop to think, to consider what I had seen. I could only run as fast as I could, simply wanting to get to the theatre where I could be alone. It wasn't terror that consumed me or fear that made me want to hide as far away as I could. But something even more horrific.

The entrance to the stables of the Opera opened before me and I raced down into the winding stone corridor that came out to the stalls and common area for saddling and grooming the horses and continued on, my breathing a harsh, horrible sound echoing in the cavernous area. I ran until I came to another long, doorless stone corridor that itself lead to the entrance into the backstage area. But as I began to rush down it, the flat, unrelieved stone walls flashing by, I tripped over a rut in the cobbled floor and fell hard to my knees, my palms landing flat and skidding over the rough rock. I cried out in pain, the skin of my hands coming off on the stone, and my knees throbbing furiously.

I collapsed onto the wall, my hair hanging in my face, no longer able to control my sobs.

_It had been me._

That was the only thought that ran through my mind, over and over again, mocking me.

_It had only been me._

The affection and gentleness Armand had touched the red haired woman with was a cruel comparison to the brutal and violent way he had treated me throughout our marriage. There had never been a time he had ever handled me with any kind of tenderness, unless it was the calm before the storm broke and he flew into a rage. His eyes had never looked at me like that, warm and soft, _loving_. Coldness, calculation, and a disgusted contempt: those emotions had never strayed far from his eyes when concerning anything with me.

It hurt, _oh, god, _it hurt!

What had I ever done to earn such brutality and cruelty from him? All the nights he would leave me lying in our bed, bloodied and bruised from his need to hurt me and then to debase, dehumanize me by forcing himself on me again and again. All those nights, I would stare at the ceiling, my eyes often swelling shut, blood in my mouth and the most excruiating pain inside of me and believe that I had married a monster, a man who was simply cruel because he simply was and believed it his right to be and because it aroused him. But he wasn't. Because I was the only one he had reserved that treatment for.

As I sagged against the wall and held my bleeding palms to my chest staining the white blouse I wore under my walking dress jacket, I cried until my ragged sobs echoed off the stone corridor.

Finally, when I couldn't weep anymore, and my breathing was a hoarse, strained whimper in my throat, I stood on trembling legs. I noticed for the first time that my purchases were not with me: I had left them with Jeanette and Marie.

I looked about me pushing my heavy mass of hair behind my shoulders. The corridor was empty, and dark, illuminated only by a globe gas lamp flickering against the wall. I walked a short ways down the hall, but didn't see any recognizable signs of where I was. The comforting sounds of horses stamping in their stalls had faded along my headlong flight and I strained to hear them, but couldn't. The passage way behind me would bring me to the backstage area, I was sure. I could move quietly through the still, dark auditorium until I made it to my room and lay down. My head was throbbing horribly and I wanted nothing more than to fall into a dreamless sleep until the performance that night.

Deciding to go through the backstage area and follow that path up to my room, I turned to begin down the dark stone halls.

Strong hands grabbed me and I was pressed to the cold damp wall.

In front of me stood Erik, clad in an elegant black evening suit, the black brocade waistcoat almost non-discernable across his chest, his stiff black cravat folded and pinned rakishly, just the tips of the lapels of his crisp white shirt visible, the voluminous cloak draped over his shoulders, the white half mask over the right side of his dark angel's face, his full sensual mouth formed into a cold smile, his golden green eyes meeting mine.

I caught my breath at the sight of him and felt my instant reaction skate down my spine: a complex _frisson _of fear, annoyance, reluctant desire, and a primal thrill.

He looked down at the stain of blood on my chest and I almost caught a fleeting glimpse of alarm, but it faded into the depths of his eyes too quickly to know if it was real or not.

He took my hands in his and turned them to look at my palms, my hands small in his large leather clad ones. They were oozing blood and an angry red.

"You ought to take more care when running through my Opera House, Genevieve." He reached into the folds of his cloak and retrieved a white hankerchief. He leaned me into the wall, and began gently wiping away the blood and dirt with the soft fabric.

I only watched, my tongue awkward in my mouth. I had not seen him in almost two weeks and it had seemed he had dismissed me as worthwhile to him. But now he stood before me, his hand holding mine as he tenderly cleaned my wounds, and I couldn't help but rememember that afternoon in the costume room when he tended my hurts.

Those images clashed alarmingly with the cold, manipulative man who had used me for his own purposes, bruised me with his vice like grip, pressed me to him just to let me feel his strength and his power over me. How could they possibly be the same man, and which one was the true Erik. He was an intoxicating mystery. I still could not decide whether I was relieved or disappointed that he had chosen to grace me with hisintriguing presence.

He finished cleaning my hands, and folded the cloth over the blood stained section and slipped it back into his cloak.

Then he came closer and I barely resisted the urge to close my eyes and bow my head into his embrace.

He tipped my face up to his gaze and touched my cheek, following the tracks of my tears with his fingers.

"You've been crying, my dear." He whispered it against my forehead as he bent to place a soft kiss there. I nearly moaned softly at the gentle brush of his lips. "Who has you so distraught?"

I swallowed thickly, and lowered my eyes, staring at his cravat pin.

"I saw Armand, he was with another woman." I whispered.

He stiffened above me, and my head snapped up. His eyes had turned from heated to cold and calculating in an instant.

"And did he see you?" His question was lethal and low.

"No," I said, anger beginning to enter my voice. _His game was not over, merely on hold._

"If he had seen me, I would most likely be dead by now or very shortly to become that way." I could see how it would have been. Armand would have caught sight of me, his eyes would have narrowed, his face contort into hard lines of rage at the sight of his former wife, alive and living comfortably, _how dare she_, and he would have sent his mistress to the carriage to wait. I would not have gotten far: he moved with ruthless speed when angered. He then would have caught me, and towed me to his home, all the while keeping a smile on his face, making it seem everything was well. Once there he would beat metill the very edge of conciousness then take me until I couldn't move, then take the pistol he carried in his waistcoat at all times and end it. There would be no scandal, no trial. He was the Comte de Bouvieux and held a powerful position in the government and social circles. No one would question his right to dispose of a inconvenience to his career and standing.

Erik pushed me into the wall, his body flush against my own. He stroked a hand down my temple and then brushed a curl behind my ear, his fingers lingering over the sensitive skin of my earlobe.

"How fortunate for both you and I as I still require..."

"If you come this way, messieurs, I'll show you our stables. We use horses in a number of our productions."

Erik and I both stared down the hall. The voice of Monsieur Andre was rapidly approaching.

Erik's expression turned feral, his eyes dangerously blazing, his teeth bared in a snarl. He rounded on me, one hand wrapping about my throat, his thumb pressed to my windpipe. He was against me in a moment, but no longer with intimidation in mind. For the first time, I truly feared he would kill me.

"If you planned this, you little wench..." he gritted, his chest rising and falling harshly in rage.

"No!" I wheezed, my hands clawing at his wrist.

"As our patrons, you'll be interested to know we use only the finest grains."

They were approaching closer and closer. The corridor had no doors. If they came upon Erik, who was a wanted man, he would kill at least one of them, and be overpowered by the other three. He would hang without a trial, his blood was wanted too badly.

I thought of him, swinging at the end of a rope, his neck broken, his eyes dead, his face an eternal mask of pain, and couldn't bear the thought.

With all the strength I could I reversed our positions, slamming him against the wall. Shocked, his hand released my throat. A crazed expression of pain and disbelief crossed his face that I would betray him.

I proved him wrong, by reaching up, bringing his head down to mine, pressing my body tightly against his, and using my hair to hide his mask. I pulled his mouth to mine and took his lips in a passionate, hungry kiss.


	17. Chapter Sixteen

**Chapter 16**

I never experienced, have never imagined that heat could swell, rise, and then wash over you, drowning out all else, leaving you clinging to something to keep you from falling over the edge into its depths.

I learned it in that stone corridor, my body pressed to Erik, my mouth moving over his in a kiss born of desperation and necessity.

He froze as my mouth claimed his, and for a brief moment, I had wondered if I had made a terrible mistake by trying to save him from this situation. Even through the distracting warmth coursing through my body, my mind screamed. _Play along, Erik! If you value your life, play along! I know I'm not Christine, but if you don't go along with this ruse, you'll dangle in the hangman's noose!_

I reached up, pulling him even tighter to me, and parting his slack lips with mine, and surging my tongue gently into his mouth. _You must go along with this play!_

Suddenly, he was no longer still and I was crushed to him, his arms coming around me with powerful force, one hand holding me tight across the small of my back, the other buried in my hair, his fist savagely twisting and angling my head.

He responded to my invasion of his mouth with fierce reaction, his mouth moving over mine with near bruising force, his tongue, hot and velvet, thrusting both languidly and powerfully at once.

I moaned in the back of my throat and tried to frantically keep up. He made a low husky sound of satisfaction, and my pulse began thundering.

After ravishing my mouth thoroughly, he slowed the kiss, and his hands began to rove over my back, stroking down the muscles on either side of my spine. His mouth began to move over my mine in slow time, his tongue surging deeply but gently. I reached up, and laid my palm along his left cheek, savoring the shift of muscles in his jaw. I whimpered softly into his mouth and he pulled me tighter, his hands gentling, one rising to stroke my face.

The managers passed by, making a leering comment about lovers always coupling the hallways. Then they were gone, their voices slowly fading to nothing.

He didn't stop, didn't release me. I stayed pressed to him.

What seemed an eternity passed before he gently drew back, pressing a last small kiss against my lips. My eyes stayed closed, I couldn't seem to open them. He cupped my face and kissed my eyelids. I finally looked at him, my breasts rising and falling frantically with the emotions that were still coursing through me.

His face was set in elegant lines as always, but his eyes were dark and hot. My eyes lowered and I stared at his mouth, his lips parted, a glimpse of his straight, white teeth, his tongue resting.

We were silent, both of us breathing raggedly, simply staring at one another.

I had never knew a kiss could steal your wits, leave you breathless, and wanting more, _so much more._

He said nothing for several long moments, simply looked at me with that devastating look in his eyes. Then the heat slowly receded, leaving the aloofness that I was so familiar with. His lips set once more in a sensual, knowing smirk. He lifted his hands and ran them over his hair in an urbane movement then straightened. He bowed to me.

"Brava, my dear. You are an exceptional actress. Have you ever thought of pursuing the stage? No? Pity, that is." He turned, the cloak flaring as he began to walk away. "Now, I believe you have the Opening Night of my Opera House to prepare for. I suggest you make it to your rooms as quickly as possible."

I stared after his receding form.

I supposed that this was the safest way to end the interlude. After all, we had avoided the managers. And it was all just acting, wasn't it?

_Wasn't it?_


	18. Chapter Seventeen

**Chapter 17**

Back in my room, I brushed out my tangled hair and carefully braided it, then pinned it in a coronet. I sat before the mirror with a bowl of cool water beside of me, and dipped a soft scrap of linen that I had discarded while making Erik's shirts and placed it on my lips, which were red and swollen. It was obvious that I had been kissed, and I didn't want the embarrassment of having to concoct a story to any of the Opera staff who might see and comment.

I didn't thinkany of them would take well to the thought of me kissing the Phantom of the Opera, who wasn't even supposed to bein existence any longer.

I studiously avoided the kiss in my mind, and any emotions and reactions that went with it. It had meant nothing. Creating an illusion of fond lovers embracing in the corridors, which was an often enough occasion, was the only means of escape that had been open to us. Erik would have been executed if I had not reacted as I had. I would have been either seen as a victim of his, pressed against the wall by my throat, or as an accomplice, knowing that he still lived. Desperate times called for desperate measures. And brazenly kissing a man who had threatened me and manipulated me for his own ends, and ensuring his safety and my continuing submission to him had indeed been desperate. In that moment I could have been rid of him and his machinations, but I didn't want to see him dead, even if it meant keeping myself a pawn in his game that I still did not know the reason for.

But once I had set my lips to his and sealed my fate, and his, the fact that the kiss was a performance hadn't seemed to matter. I'd allowed myself to lose touch with reality. When he'd finally reacted and returned the kiss, and then ruthlessly took control, I'd gladly given up the reins. Everything had disappeared but he and I and the heat flaring between us.

But when we'd broke apart and I'd watched the desire recede back into the depths of his eyes, and his cool elegance return, I'd known that he may have enjoyed the kiss, but it had not changed things. I was still his, to do with as he wished. I looked at myself in the mirror and then pictured the delicate beauty of Christine de Chagny. Was it her lips he'd kissed, instead of mine?

It had meant nothing to him, and it should have meant nothing to me, but I'd never been kissed in such a way. Before my wedding night, all my kisses had been innocent, a slight meeting of lips. And Armand's kisses had been vicious and violating. The gentleness and intensity of Erik's mouth upon mine had been something I'd never exprerienced before. I'd never been savored before. But I knew where kisses like the one we'd shared led, and I would never make myself vulnerable to any man ever again. That sensation of intense need that I'd felt as he'd ravished my senses, while incredibly intoxicating, had also left me feeling defenseless and terrified.

It had to mean nothing to me, also. It _could not_ mean anything else.

A brisk knock at my door had me standing and casting a last look in the mirror. My lips were only slightly fuller now and the color had once faded tojust a shade darker than its customary apricot hue. I was presentable enough.

Madame Giry stood outside the door. She took in my blood stained blouse and filthy skirts and frowned.

"Is everything well, Genevieve?"

I stood back, gesturing for her to come inside.

"I'm looking quite rough, I know. I fell and scraped my palms, and clutched them to my chest until they stopped throbbing. I'll be changing shortly into something fresh."

She nodded and moved gracefully to the large mirror, reaching out a hand and touching the frame.

"What harm befell your mouth?" Her eyes met mine in the mirror. I tried to control the scarlet that stained my cheeks, but failed.

"I don't know. They have been itching as of late. Perhaps I used a new creme and it is not agreeing with me." It sounded weak, even to my own ears. Judging by the arch of her reddish brow, I knew that she saw straight through me. Jeanette had told me once that Madame Giry had been the confidante of the Opera Ghost, delivering his notes to the managers and petitioning for his demands to be met. Did she know that he had been focused upon me since I had come here?

"Come," she gestured to the bed. "Sit beside me, I want to talk to you."

I reluctantly sat, my shoulders back, my spine stiff with apprehension. She reached over and took my hand, and turned it palm up to the red abrasions.

"I know that life here can be difficult at times. We work very hard, here. And sometimes fate chooses us for an even harder role in our lives and those of others. I have had such a role at this Opera House. So did Christine Daae. As you do."

_She knew_. It was impossible to miss her implications. She was aware that Erik was still alive and wandering the vaults of the theatre, and that he had made himself known to me and I was an unwilling party in his plan, whatever it may be.

"Madame, I would rather not discuss this..."

"You must. Genevieve, I know how much you want your life to be simple and quiet, to simply exist here and be a part of the Opera. And I know that obeying...him...is the only way to ensure that. I have a suspicion of what your secret is. I've noticed how well you hide your past and simplify your appearance. You're running away, I know not from what, but I do know that it is vital that you stay here, unassuming and quiet, as you are." She reached up and I was suprised at the gentleness with which she touched my cheek. She smiled softly. "I know Erik well, my dear, and I know that he is planning something. He no longer appears to me, and I no longer know his ways. And I know that you have no choice but to follow his plot. But let me say this, and I will say no more. Guard your heart. I was there that night when he took Christine from the stage during "Don Juan." And I saw the way he looked at her, and touched her. It was a great deal more than mere desire. And I know that he was destoyed by her leaving. He hid in misery for a year and now he has decided to live again, and this is only the beginning. He won't be content to live below the Opera in his loneliness with no power and no purpose. I would hate to see you destroyed as well, Genevieve."

She stood and walked away, her eyes upon the mirror.

I sat, looking at my hands curled in my lap, unable to speak or move. Tears burned unexplicably behind my eyes. She had just confirmed why the kiss had meant nothing to him, and why it had changed nothing. He needed me for something and for a great deal more than just food and clothing.

I heard her turn back to me and I looked up at her.

"Now for the other reason I came. Sorelli, stupid girl that she is, twisted her ankle running in the park from her suitor, acting like a tart. Meg is going to have to take her place. The costume for the prima will have to be adjusted."

I sighed and stood, my confusion and anguish over the past hour falling away in the face of the tasks before me for the night.

"Of course, please let change and I'll join you and Meg in the costume room in a moment." She nodded and left.

The twins burst into the room, greeting Madame Giry, and rushed forward with my bags in their hands.

After much questioning on their parts, I explained that I had felt suddenly ill and had to rush off. They easily accepted my story in their innocence, exclaiming with concern. I finally ushered them from the room and opened my packages to find something suitable for Opening Night.

Behind me, as I was removing the blood stained blouse, my skirt already laid across the chair and my chemise covering my hips and legs, the mirror slid open. I whirled with a gasp and watched as Erik slowly stalked into the room. He went straight to the bed and sat, reclining back on my pillows, his eyes on me. I clutched the blouse to my chest, thanking whatever gods that I was wearing a corset.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, getting angry. He had no respect for me or my privacy. I wondered how much he'd heard of my conversation with Madame Giry. "How long have you been behind the mirror?"

He smiled, lifting his visible, black brow sardonically. "Long enough to hear the ridiculous story you told those nitwits. Really, my dear, after that clever performance in the corridor this afternoon, which I have not properly thanked you for, I would think you could do better than that."

I turned toward the door, realized it was unlocked and ran over to snib the bolt then turned back to him.

"Please leave. I have to get dressed." I gestured toward the garments laid out by his legs. My new clothes were spread out for me to choose from.

He sat up and cast a considering eye over them.

"You will wear the copper skirts, I think. With that black chiffon blouse. Elegant, but serviceable. And the color would set your eyes off very well." He picked up the blouse in his gloved hand and stood. I resisted the urge to retreat as he languidly came to me. He reached out and took the stained blouse out of my hand and tossed it upon a chair.

"Wh... what are you doing?" I asked as he moved behind me. I looked up at the mirror. I stood in my white corset and chemise, feeling very bare. He stood behind me, far above my head, clad in solid black, except for the tips of his shirt collar and the stark white of his mask. He smiled rakishly at me in the mirror.

"Helping you dress. You do far too much on your own, my dear." He held the blouse open in front of him, and I found myself rolling my shoulders back to slide my arms into the sleeves. He lifted the garment, sliding it up my arms, his hands moving over my bare skin, and then onto my shoulders, his fingers finally brushing my collarbone as he brought the two halves together.

Breathless, I reached up to begin buttoning it, but his fingers deftly closed the first hook over into the eye before I could and he moved his hands lower, closing each opening. I swallowed hard, resisting a shiver as his fingers grazed the uppers swells of my breasts as he buttoned the blouse closed over the edge of my corset.

Finally against my lower belly he closed the last opening and then moving his hands up to my ribcage, black on black, smoothed the fabric over my abdomen. His eyes had never left mine in the mirror. _Was I actually allowing a man to dress me?_

He moved to the bed and carried over the softly gleaming taffeta skirts, the fabric whispering against his thighs.

"Raise your arms," he commanded in a low voice. I obeyed without question and he slid them over my head and down my body until they fell, with a hush of sound to my feet. He pulled the two halves of the opening together and began lacing them, his hands a constant pressure at my lower back.

When they were secured tightly about my waist, he leaned forward, his eyes still holding mine in the glass, and grasped my hips against him.

His lips grazed my ear as he whispered. "Now I have properly thanked you. I do not play maid for none, except those who might have saved me from the hangman's noose." His head bowed and I watched breathlessly as he kissed my throat. My eyes finally lost the battle and they slid closed.

"Erik," I whispered his name into the stillness of the room.

He abruptly straightened, and moved away from me. I turned and watched as he unlocked the door, and opened it, gesturing with an elegant hand.

"Don't you think you ought to be leaving?"

I swallowed, nodding, and hurried out the door as it closed behind me.


	19. Chapter Eighteen

**Chapter 18**

A few moments later found me standing before Meg Giry in her corset and short ballet slip, the costume for La Sorelli's role, who was in her room nursing her ankle, behind us on the dress form. The performance began in four hours and there was to be a meeting of all the staff an hour before. That gave me a little over two hours to adjust the costume to fit Meg.

Madame Giry stood to the side, watching as I began to walk around her daughter, a pencil tapping against my mouth.

"Well, not to be crude,but we'll definitely have to take out the bodice a good bit: you're rather more well-favored than Sorelli in that area." I smiled at her and placed my hands on her shoulders, the measuring tape between them to see if the sleeves would still be the appropriate size.

Beside me, Madame Giry rolled her eyes and gave a soft snort. "This is no lie. I beat off these cheeky boys everyday with my cane. They're always trying to get a peek down her blouse."

Meg blushed prettily and I patted her cheek. "You'll steal the heart of some wealthy patron one day, I've no doubt and leave us all here, languishing in your wake." She giggled and tossed her golden hair behind one shoulder. _Oh, to be that young and pretty again!_

I determined the sleeves would need no adjustment as Meg's shoulders and arms were as svelte as Sorelli's. I pulled my skirts up slightly and sank to my knees in front of her to measure her waist and hips and the length of her legs. Her waist and hips were perfectly sized for the costume, but she was considerably shorter than Sorelli, who was one of the tallest dancers I'd seen, about 5'5. Meg barely stood 5'1. I still towered over both at nearly 5'9. If I'd ever wanted to be a dancer, it would have been a dead dream: my incrediably long legs would have tangled and left me on my bottom constantly. If I'd wanted to be a singer, well, I wouldn't get started on the fact that I could send a room screaming, covering their ears in agony. But since I was small, a sketch pad and pencil had never been far from my bedside or chair, except in the presence of my father, who would give me a smart cuff for constantly wasting my mind on drawing, a thoroughly foolish pursuit in his eyes, especially sketching dress after dress on any surface I could get my hands on. If an idea formed in my mind for a new style or a new way to wear a garment, I would have to sketch it right then, or I would positively go mad with the desire to. But it had seemed that my childhood vice and a constant incitement for Armand's rage had become a benefit after all: my work here at the Opera was the most fufilling and exciting thing I had ever done. The theatre had become my artistic domain and I looked forward to each Opera with a ravening hunger to create something new.

I stood, brushing off my skirts and wrapped the tape about my shoulders and went to the costume, taking itover to the table, and began making pencil marks on the delicate chiffon.

"Alright, Meg my dear, I'm going to shorten the length about four inches so that it falls to just below your knees, and the fabric I remove, I'll use to let out the bodice." I raised my eyes to hers. "Can you be back here in about," I looked at the small clock mounted upon the wall, "an hour? I'll have the new fabric added by then and pinned for the rough fitting. We'll put it on you, and see if all is well then I'll make the final stitches."

She nodded, then rushed out the door to greet a friend who had called her name in the hallway. I bent back to my work, pulling out a chair and sitting.

Madame Giry came behind me and laid a hand on my shoulder.

"I will ensure she is back here in an hour. If I leave her to her own devices, you'll never see her again."

I smiled and nodded, distracted, already in my frame of mind that I slipped into when I began working. She quietly left, and I continued marking the fabric where I'd cut.

An hour later, Madame Giry towed Meg in. I had the costume upon the form and was on my knees, pins stuck in my mouth as I pinned one last section of the bodice. I directed Meg to slip off her rehearsal costume and gingerly lifted the costume over her head, being careful of the pins to not prick her. Once it was on her, I turned her toward the mirror, my hands on her hips behind her and carefully assesed my work.

"Perfect," I declared happily, noting the way the bodice hugged her upper body perfectly, modest, but showcasing her more than generous curves none the less. The bodice then flared into the full skirts which floated to just below her knees as desired.

Madame Giry smiled and gently moved her daughter's hair off her shoulders. "You look lovely, my dear. You won't disappoint me, tonight. You've been practicing the role?" She raised a brow at her child.

Meg nodded quickly. "Of course, Maman." She turned and looked up into my eyes, her eyes lighting. "I'm _so _much better than Sorelli. I hope to convince the managers tonight to allow me to take her place."

"Meg! Your time will come. Be thankful that at least you have the chance to give them a taste tonight of your talent." Her mother scolded her.

I stepped away and brought over a small piece of chalk. "Now, Meg, if you'll indulge me a moment more, I need to begin removing these pins and mark where our final stitches will go. If I prick you, let me know." She nodded, and I began gently removing the pins, holding each piece of fabric between my fingers as I rubbed the chalk over that area.

Beside us, the door opened, but I didn't lift my head, not wanting to lose my place in my work.

I heard Meg gasp happily.

"Christine!"

I froze behind her, my fingers stilling on the fabric. I slowly turned my head and beneath my lashes watched as a well dressed young woman entered the room. She wore a gown of obviously expensive raw silk, a pale rose that matched her ivory complexion, deep brown curls, and soft long-lashed brown eyes to perfection. She came over with a smile on her delicately beautiful face and took Meg's hands in hers.

"Meg," she laughed softly, "I've missed you. Raoul is speaking with the managers, and I had to come find you. I was told you were here. You're taking Sorelli's role tonight? How exciting."

"Well, Madame la Vicomtess, it is wonderful to see you here again." Meg moved over slightly being wary of the pins in her costume, kissing Christine's cheek.

I kept my eyes upon my work, pulling out the pins and marking each place, my mind working frantically.

_Would she recognize me? What would Erik do when he saw her? She believed him dead or gone from the Opera, or she wouldn't be here. Erik, don't do anything foolish if you're watching! Don't make me have saved your life in vain earlier!_

Beside me, Madame Giry was silent, no doubt the same thoughts going through her own mind.

Finally she moved, taking Christine's hands in hers. Christine's eyes softened and a fine sheen of tears shown in the chocolate depths.

"Madame Giry, it's so good to see you, again." Christine released her hands and put her arms around the older woman. Madame Giry returned her embrace.

"Christine, my child, I didn't expect to see you again."

"Yes, I know. There are a lot of...memories here. But most of them are happy ones, and I couldn't stand not seeing you and letting you know that I was well. Actually, more than well." She drew back, a smile of pure joy lighting her face. Her hands went to her abdomen protectively. "Raoul and I have just learned we are to be parents for the first time."

Meg and Madame Giry both cried out in delight, and I released Meg long enough for her to hug her friend. It gave me a chance to turn away and set the pins I'd removed upon the table and to compose myself. I looked into the mirror over my spectacles. The last time, Christine had seen me several months ago right after she had left the Opera and only short weeks before my divorce, I had been dressed quite differently from my now conservative style, and my hair had been arranged in a topknot, the curls falling to the middle of my back and no glasses upon my face and more weight on my frame, making me a good deal more voluptuous than I was now. It was doubtful she would recognize me, almost purely because she would not be expecting to see the Comtess de Bouvieux altering costumes in the Opera.

I turned back to where Meg now stood, waiting again for me to continue.

Christine finally turned to me and smiled, holding out her hand. I returned the smile, keeping my eyes soft and my face composed. I took her hand and curtsied to her.

"Christine," Madame Giry began, "this is Genevieve Devereaux. She's our new seamstress here, very talented."

"Madame la Vicomtess," I curtsied again and smiled at her. A strange look came into her eyes and she stepped forward. I swallowed and kept my eyes to hers below me.

"Have we met, previously, Mademoiselle Devereaux?"

"I do not believe so, Madame. I have lived in the country for the majority of my life before coming here," I lied easily. _I hated deception._

"Oh, I always think I've met someone. Ask my husband. He says I'm too inquisitive for my own good." She smiled at me and pressed my hand. I returned her smile and moved behind Meg once more and began my work again, sighing inwardly with relief.

Madame Giry raised a hand to Christine's face. "I hope you are truly well, my dear. I was so concerned about you and ...others...after the events of last year. I believe you should know that...everyone...seems fine."

"No one ever found...?"

"No, nothing. I believe he is well. No doubt still missing you, but still existing."

"Is he here?" Christine's voice lowered, and I couldn't help but notice the concern and fear that did battle in her face.

"I...don't know, my dear. Perhaps it is best we leave it at that."

Christine nodded and then turned to the door. She stopped, her hand on the knob.

"Raoul and I have a box tonight for the performance. I can't wait to see you dance tonight, Meg." She turned, her eyes meeting mine. "It was good to meet you, Mademoiselle Devereaux."

I curtsied and smiled gently at her. It was difficult to remain ill at ease in the presence of her sweet nature. "I as well, Madame La Vicomtess."

She turned to Madame Giry and smiled at her, then left the door closing slightly behind her.

I cleared my throat. "I've finished Meg. Let's get this off of you, and I'll make the final stitches and you'll be properly costumed for tonight." My voice was only trembling slightly.

_What would Erik do when he saw the woman he loved on her husband's arm tonight? And what would be his reaction when he learned she was carrying Raoul's child?_


	20. Chapter Nineteen

**Chapter 19 - Erik's Point of View**

Behind the mirror to the costume room, I backed up slowly. My back hit the wall, jarring my mind, which till now had been numb and sluggish, into action.

_She had returned._

The sight of her, standing there, her arms folded over her waist, clad in a gown that seemed to enhance her beauty even more, had stolen my breath. My eyes had roved her face, hungry for her features. Her smooth brow, her wide brown eyes, her rose-tinted cheeks, her sensually but sweetly curved mouth. The cascade of dark brown curls, which she had always worn down and back in our acquaintance, she now wore up, revealing the enticing curve of her fragile throat.

When she'd spoken and smiled, I'd pressed myself to the mirror, pathetically eager for the sound of her voice. That soft, low alto, a stunning contrast to her bell-like pure soprano voice when singing.

I'd watched with envious eyes as Meg Giry had embraced her, as Antoinette had caressed her cheek. I closed my eyes, breathing deeply, almost imagining the scent of her skin, an innocent fragrance. _Roses_. How it would drift to me when I held her, on the rare occasions that I had, her skin warming as I sang to her. Her eyes sliding closed, her lashes, dark and feathered upon her cheeks, her dusky pink lips parting with a sigh. _Christine._

That night was still burned into my accursed memory. The performance of Don Juan, the noose about Piangi's neck; a minor detail, the look on her face when she'd realized that I played her lover, not Ubaldo. Then the surrender. Taking her in my arms, my hands insistient on her throat, caressing her as far as I dared, surrounding her with my voice, until she'd trembled under my touch. Looking up, catching that boy's eyes and watching them glaze over with tears that she had made her choice and it wasn't him. The powerful swell of triumph that I would have her that night.

Then, as I'd asked her, taking their impassioned words on the rooftop and making them mine, and she'd looked at me with her heart in her eyes, her head tilting in that sweet gesture. And ripped my mask and wig off, baring me to everyone in the theatre. The screams of terror, the horrified gasps, the look of guilt on her flushed face.

Down in the cellars, in my lair. Raoul tied to the porticullus, my deadly noose about his neck, the end of it in my hand. Savagely jerking the noose, watching with satisfaction as his throat convulsed in agony. Screaming at her to make her choice. And she had. Her kiss, warm and soft on my lips, which had never received such caresses before,her body hestitantly meeting mine.I hadn't even touched her, the rope still wound in my hands. That kiss had dragged me under, my body surging in desire. And then she'd pulled away, and I'd watched her eyes, my mouth still throbbing with need, as they'd shifted back and forth between mine. _Pleading._

And I'd known that I couldn't kill that mere boy that she'd given her heart to. She stood before me, offering herself to me in return for his life. And the thought of taking her, knowing that it would be his face that she would desperately wish over her, had sickened me. And I'd let them go.

Afterward, huddling in the passageway behind the third mirror, a hidden tunnel I'd created if I was ever discovered, I'd sat and raged within myself. I had been denied the joys of the flesh my entire life, even the innocent kiss of a mother's lips on my twisted and scarred cheek. Why should I have suffered for the decision she had made? Why hadn't I let_only_ that boy go? Choked him till he fell unconcious and disposed of him safely where he would wake up many hours later and I take Christine away where no one would find us. Where I could have her as often as I liked, as often as she hadtempted me then denied me. _Why!_

Now she stood in my Opera once again, her face shining with wedded bliss. She announced she was to have Raoul's child.

It was all I could do to not howl with agony, throw the mechanism that would open the mirror to the room, dispose of the three women inside and drag her down to the lair once more.

I leaned back against the wall, my teeth bared, chest heaving with rage as I watched her chat and press hands, then leave with a promise to be here tonight to watch the performance with her _dear_ husband at her side.

My breathing finally slowed, my heart ended its race, and I straightend, my face hardening with determination. She'd made her choice, I'd simply released her from it. But not this time, _oh, no, my dear,_ not this time. If she dared enter here, with that boy in tow, she'd better be prepared to risk my wrath. It wasn't my fault if she was forced to honor the decision she'd made a year ago. Perhaps it was time I called in her debt to me.

I would need time to formulate a plan, but I would have her. She would not come here and flaunt her happiness in my face and not pay the consequences. That boy would have to live with the fact that a monster would raise his child in his place

My eyes fell on the third woman in the room, standing to the side, carefully laying pins upon a tabletop, her eyes downcast behind her spectacles which I knew were merely glass. I stepped foot into her room many a times while she had slept upon the daybed, and had noticed right away that they were part of her disguise.

_Genevieve._ The former Comtess de Bouvieux. A tall, willowly woman, who moved about with quiet grace, keeping all her secrets and her former identity clutched tightly to herself. It had not taken me long to realize that her former husband was searching for her among the ladies of Paris.

That day, behind this same mirror, as I'd watched with detached interest on who would be Madame Lefevre's new assistant, she'd revealed who she had been to the older lady. I had leapt upon the information immediately. Here, at last, was the individual who would help me return to my former state. Unwillingly, of course, but that was a minor inconvenience that a few letters from my hand had quickly rendered moot. She was terrified of her husband, as most wives who've cuckolded their husbands are, and that he would find her. That fear was what kept her submissive to me. I held her very fate, her _life_, in my hands and if I so chose, I could crush her in an instant.

She'd obeyed me implicity if reluctantly, and I'd been very patient with her, even stitching her hand after a run in with Carlotta that had made me feel a grudging bit of respect for her. Outside of my presence she was strong and independent, relying quite neatly on herself. In_my_ vicinity, however, was a different story.

I'd quickly learned that though she'd been married for nearly ten years, she seemed very easily intimidated by the nearness and touch of a man. I hadn't quite put my finger on that point, but it served my purposes well.

Every encounter proved more enlightening, more revealing. I couldn't seem to keep my treacherous hands off her. Watching her eyes grow frightened, then darken, her breathing increase slowly until she was near gasping, her spine of steel dissolving as she leaned into me. I supposed it was a balm to my twisted vanity that she responded so easily. It was interesting to watch her mind beat against me, then finally give in and let me have my way. Each time I touched her and spoke with her, she fell more and more under my power. I allowed her to feel my careful touches as well as my bruising strength. The better to inform her that while I would treat her well as long as she did as I said, I would not hesitate to punish her if she disobeyed. She had only dared disobey one time and I had put her in her place, crushing her underneath me on her bed and nearly breaking her slender wrists. She had not disappointed me since.

In her eyes existed an intriguing mix of hatred, anger, confusion, and some unnamed feeling that I hesitated to call desire. Perhaps the obsession with which Christine had stared at my mask, but I believed_ unbelievingly_ so, that it might be, perhaps, a bit more.

This afternoon, when I had come upon her in the stone corridor after she had ran from the sight of her former husband, I'd grown furious that he might have seen her and thus destroyed my plan to use her until I had once again had control. But she'd looked at me with hatred more than anything glowing back in her honey brown eyes and coldly informed me that he had not. My satisfaction that she was still mine to do with as I wished had been short lived. The two damned idiots who called themselves my managers had come down the corridor, puffing themselves up like strutting cocks to the new patrons. I'd looked at her, my eyes burning in rage. It was her perfect opportunity to end my control over her and free herself and see me dead as many others wanted. I ruthlessly decided I would kill her before I would watch her watch me hang.

But she'd moved so quickly, freeing herself of my murderous grip about her throat and slamming me to the wall. After all the times she'd responded to my touch and voice, I was shocked and madly pained that she would betray me.

But when she'd pulled my head down to hers, shielding my mask from view and covered my mouth with hers so possesively and pressed her body to mine, I'd frozen, my mind barely comprehending that she was saving me. Unable to move, even to breathe, my lips had been parted by hers and her warm, soft tongue had gently filled my mouth. Christine had kissed me, but not like this.

I'd stood in wonder for a moment, enjoying my first taste of a woman's mouth, then raw need had hit me like lightning and I'd crushed her to me, ruthlessly taking advantage, plundering her vulnerable mouth, exulting in this experience that had always been denied my scorned flesh. Our game of make believe turned very real as she'd moaned into my mouth, and pressed closer to my body.

After having my fill, I'd slowed to savor the taste and texture, to learn the delicate hollows and curves of a woman's mouth. Her soft whimper had gentled the ravenous animal inside of me and I'd touched the softness of her cheek, enjoying the flex of fine muscles as she moved her lips in time with mine.

When the kiss had ended and I'd watched sanity return to her, and the threat of discovery passed, I saw the fear return to her eyes.

When I'd applauded her performance, the hurt in them had been unexpected. And when I'd left her staring after me, I had felt her confusion once more. No doubt she had probably cursed me after I'd disappeared out of earshot.

The interlude in her room before her appointment to adjust Meg's costume had been merely to reestablish my role as her master. She'd submitted reluctantly and allowed me to dress her, each movement a reminder that she was mine.

I studied her carefully as she returned to Meg to remove more pins. I was far from finished with her. She'd help me in this opera I'd decided to write, with Christine, her husband, and I as the players. _She'd help me or she'd pay dearly._

I left the mirror and began to make my way to my lair. This time, I wouldn't be denied.


	21. Chapter Twenty

**Chapter 20**

An hour before the curtain rose on the opening night of Le Baudelaire, the entire staff and cast joined for a meeting. I stood at the corner of the stage near the lights along the lip, Jeanette and Marie on either side of me. The dancers, chorus, and principals were in full costume and paint. Each dancer wore her headdress draping over her hair and down to the middle of her upperback. I found myself studying them to ensure the dresser had affixed the piece correctly over the young women's chignons. All appeared well.

I leaned forward slightly and took in the general appearance of the cast, but couldn't see the entire picture. Looking to make sure that the managers had not yet appeared, I went about the curtains, crossing beneath the drop rafters and to the stairs leading to the floor. I hurried to the center, and plopped down in a front row seat.

"Can all of you look at me, please?" I raised my voice, loud and clear, over the chatter. All eyes turned to me. I traveled down the line of performers with my gaze until I ascertained all the costumes were donned properly and projected well into the theatre.

With an apologetic smile, but not sorry for making certain our work had been dislayed correctly upon each individual, I walked quickly back onto stage, my face unable to quell the smile that my lips formed. The triumph that soared through me at how perfectly designed and created the costumes were was worth a thousand days like the ones I'd had recently. _Remember this precious feeling. This is what you stand to lose._

The managers appeared a moment later and a gave an impassioned speech of how vital and important this night was to the future of the Opera Populaire. They urged each individual, whether their role was the diva or the small boys who would run drinks of water to the men toiling in the flies, to do their best. Monsieur Andre introduced the two new patrons. Both gentlemen stood, their eyes moving lavaciously over the dancing girls. I heard Carlotta stamp angrily and bit my lip to keep from laughing. Jeanette leaned over and whispered in my ear.

"You didn't cut her bodice low enough. She's going to have your head after the performance."

I lookedincreduoulsy downthe line, finding the redheaded woman tugging at her dress while trying to bat her eyes at the two patrons.

"She's in for a nasty shock. They're both eyeing Meg," I murmured. Both men's eyes had gone wide at the sight that little Giry's bodice showcased.

"Madame Giry will chase them about the stage with her cane." Marie wickedlywhispered on the other side.

The three of us must have pictured the sight all at once, for Jeanette began to shake, Marie trembled, and I bit my tongue so hard I tasted blood. And once a group of two or more began to laugh about the same thought, it was difficult to stop, even after the hilarity wore off.

I closed my eyes tightly, tears slipping down my cheeks, my hand clasped to my stomach. Jeanette and Marie were both propped against either of my shoulders, nearly choking with holding in the laughter.

"_Ladies!_" Andre boomed and we lifted our heads still shaking uncontrollably. "Is there something you'd care to share with us?" He raised one brow, looking furious.

"No, Monsieur," I managed to gasp out, my sides cramping horribly. "No, I'm sorry."

The twins nearly collapsed against me.

"Well, since obviously everyone is overjoyed about tonight, let us open the doors!" He clapped his hands and he and Monsieur Firmin and the two gentlemen smartly turned and exited the stage. Monsieur Reyer peeked his head out above the orchestra pit.

"Places! Places, please!" He called fretfully, his bushy brows wiggling furiously.

I took a girl in each hand and turned them to the backstage area resolutely. We exploded into laughter. I felt like a school girl again.

Minutes later, we stood behind the curtains, watching the performance begin. The lights along the stage had been lit, the auditorium dimmed, and the curtain slowly opened. The magic began.

I sank slowly to my knees to sit and watch as the dancers began to float out upon the stage, their movements graceful. The music swelled and grew, then drifted throughout the auditorium. I closed my eyes, sighing with ecstacy, my lips parting in a smile.

Each time Armand had took me to the Opera, he'd only gone to see and be seen, to further his contact and political influence, but never to simply listen and enjoy. I'd had to accompany him, on his arm, his tall, elegant wife, gowned to perfection, each curl glistening, my throat winking with jewels, as he'd moved from box to box. I didn't dare suggest that we go back to our own box to watch the performance. To do so would have invited a savage beating later for embarassing him.

But now I not only was able to sit and soak in the magic and mystery of it all, but to actually know that the beautiful clouds of aqua chiffon whirling about the stage in time with the swirling music were mine.

I sat, enraptured as Meg slowly pirouetted onto the stage, her golden hair loose, her scarlet sash saucily tied about her small waist. Gilles Dunoue, the principal male dancer leapt onto the stage with bravado, insantly swooping to Meg and lifting her into the air and then allowing her to slowly slide down the length of his body. She coyly spun away from him, and removed her sash, then began a sensual solo, teasing him mercilessly with the banner of scarlet red. He followed her, his arms outstretched, finally rewarded as she threaded the sash through her ownarms and about his neck. He caught the length of chiffon and used it to pull her to him, where he gathered her in his arms, then slowly swept off the stage with her.

Beside me, Madame Giry stood. She gripped my shoulder and I raised my head to look at her.

"That sash was the perfect prop. I'm very pleased I bowed to you on that." I smiled up at her and looked back to the stage, blinking back tears. Praise indeed, coming from the very demanding ballet mistress.

The next scene began and soon the theatre was swelling with the voices of the chorus and principals, the air trembling with each note.

I shifted my eyes away from the performers for one moment and looked toward the audience. In one of the boxes over the left side of the stage sat a fashionably dressed couple, his golden brown head bowed to her deep chocolate curls. The love between them was obvious as Raoul trailed a hand gently down Christine's softly curved cheek. She leaned into his hand, kissing his palm. He leaned forward, taking her lips under his. Her hand rose to his hair, brushing some behind his ear.

I lowered my eyes, my chest constricting. Tears blurred my eyes as I studied my trembling hands. I opened my fingers and stared at the red, scraped palms with an aching heart.

I knew it was very possible, that after this afternoon, I was falling in love with an angry, destoyed man who would never return my affections.

My eyes raised to the young couple once more and the gentleness with which he pressed a kiss to her hair. How many times had I cried myself to sleep wishing that Armand would touch me like that?

I was broken myself. How was I ever to love a broken man?


	22. Chapter Twenty-One

**Chapter 21**

I didn't have long to dwell upon my sorrow.

Carlotta had once again stepped on the train of her gown while backstage, and her aria was to be performed in bare minutes. Her rotund, ruddy faced maid summoned me and I reluctantly got to my feet with a sigh and a last longing glance at the stage and followed her.

After kneeling behind the diva's skirts and carefully and quickly hemming her torn train, finishing right before she was to appear upon stage, I stood watching her sail off, her maids trotting obediantly after her. I sighed and began to make my way back to my post behind the curtain to watch the performance. I took no more than two steps and was accosted by Meg, whose sash had ripped on a stray nail in a wall after she'd danced off stage. I took the garment from her, making a makeshift table out of a prop stone and sewed up the tear. She took it with a smile and a thanks and ran to her group of friends as they readied to dance once again.

Throughout the night, each time I tried to watch the performance, someone would catch me by the arm, reporting that their flounce had torn, or their robe had snagged from being carelessly thrown across props. As I worked, I caught out of the corner of my eye Jeanette and Marie making their way beneath the drop flies, on the arms of two stagehands, who should've, by rights, been at their posts. I made a mental note to speak with the twins later. I had become their friend over time, but I wouldn't tolerate them lingering in the shadows with sweethearts while work remained to be done.

The backstage area was a cacaphony of sound and movement. Porters had already began to arrive with massive bouquets of roses in each arm, no doubt for Carlotta and select ballet dancers, surely one of them Meg Giry, who had performed superbly.

Finally, I stood still for several moments, waiting in the hubbub for someone to summon me to fix a costume or a headdress. No one appeared, and my shoulders fell in relief. Ipinned back several loose curls ofmy hair and began to turn to my corner to watch the stage, anticipation flowing to see the brilliant lights and sit enraptured to the music. I reached the curtains in time to watch the entire theater plummet into darkness.

I stepped back startled, my gasp of shock joining those of the audience and cast.

A candlebra set backstage behind me slowly extinguished as well. Then the globe gas lamps flickered out. I turned quick enough to see the same globes attached to all the rafters and walkways above me also die. I was later told that the porcelein bisque lights in the Grand Foyer and along the Staircase also blinked into darkness.

The silence was deafening. A deep, eerie hush fell over the audience. My spine crawled with apprehension as my eyes frantically searched the heavy darkness for movement. _This wasn't natural._

When the stage, auditorium, backstage globes, and even the candles suddenly flared fully back to life, causing me to cover my eyes, the silence ended. Whispers and wonderings filled the air, a rush of sound. The cast upon the stage, after blinking into the brightness, and turning to look at each other uneasily, finally resumed the performance. The audience settled back into their seats.

I couldn't help but notice that a good deal of the performers and patrons both, cast their eyes up, at the chandelier that glowed in the mosiac of angels flitting against a blue sky. My own eyes stayed there even after everyone looked away, my heart beating slow and deep in my ears.

And I knew.

_He had returned._

The Opening Night performance of Le Baudelaire ended and the cast took their bows to a house standing ovation, the roar of approval resounding even through to me, a simple seamstress.

In moments, the backstage area was pure pandemonium. Voices rang out, calling congratulations to one another, making promises for drinks later in the evening, ordering rounds of champagne. Bodies pressed as the ballet girls flirted with patrons and Opera staff, the cast gathered in rings to toast each other and their success, the managers each with a dancing tart on his arm, glasses of golden, bubbling wine in their free hands. The new noble patrons both stood near Monsieurs Andre and Firmin, Lisette and Jammes practically crawling up their bodies.

I recognized the Duc de Rischard approaching them, a ravishing raven haired beauty on his arm, dressed in an emerald silk gown that she was nearly out of, gaudy diamonds serving as the only cover for her ample bosom. I knew from personal acquaintance with the duke and his duchess that this was not she. I turned away in disgust, then spotted the de Chagnys, Christine on Raoul's arm making their way toward me, smiles on their faces. Alarm flared, but I tamped it down, affecting a demure smile and curtsying to them as they approached. Raoul, as handsome and unassuming as he'd been that day in the shop bowed over my hand and pressed a light kiss to my knuckles, then straightened.

"Madame, I hope you do not mind. I told my lovely wife that I recognized you from the shop that day and wondered why you were rushing about the backstage of the Opera . She explained to me that you are the new seamstress, hence your reason for the rushing," he smiled, his hazel eyes lighting, "and my curiousity was satisfied."

I smiled and he released my hand. The beautiful young woman next to him furrowed her brow slightly at me.

"Oh, I'm afraid we were misintroduced! Raoul told me you were shopping for your husband that day and I think Madame Giry accidentally referred to you as _mademoiselle_."

I cleared my throat, growing nervous with the turn the conversation was taking, wanting nothing more than to run to my room and forget about this day and all its uncomfortable events and revelations.

"_Mademoiselle_ is correct, Madame de Chagny. I'm afraid I was not shopping for a husband that day that you assisted me, my lord. Merely a...friend of mine who was unable to leave his home."

The young couple gave me an odd glance, but then smiled and congratulated me on the quality of the costumes. I accepted their praise with graciousness and took my leave of them, and not a moment too soon.

In the face of the piquant beauty of Christine de Changy, I felt even more at a loss for my hopelessly muddled and confused feelings for Erik. I should have hated him, but I did not. I should have been repulsed by him, knowing what lay beneath his mask and the cruel lengths he'd gone to control Christine, but Iwas not. I wanted to let him teach me the things that I'd never learned in my marriage, the things that I was at once terrified of, and also intrigued by. Terrified because I would be left once again in a position of vulnerability, but this time bound by need and love, instead of fear and duty. Intrigued because of the feminine need to feel cherished and held, to belong to a man in _every_ way, and not just because a ceremony had declared it so, but because _he_ had declared it so, to actually welcome a man to my bed and love him with the fullness that I'd never been allowed to experience _or _give back myself.

But when I looked at the fragile beauty that he had loved, and remembered Madame Giry's words of what she had seen pass between them that night on the stage, as he'd held her and sang of passion and ravenous desire, I knew that I wanted in vain. Hoped in vain._Loved_ in vain.

When a drop of moisture struck the hand crossed at my waist, I realized that I had begun to cry.

Later, as the pandemonium died and the cast and staff sought their beds, whether their own or another's, or they disappeared into the streets to restaurants and drinking establishments to congratulate themselves on a night well played out, I undressed in the darkness of my room and climbed into my small, cold bed.

But sleep wouldn't come. The air had begun to chill considerably outside and the managers' offices, the principals quarters and dressing rooms, and the Foyer were the first places to receive heat as it spread. When I'd checked the linen closet for extra blankets earlier, therehad beennone to be had. I shivered in my bed, pulling the one sheet and coverlet over me tighter to hold in the warmth of my body.

The cold kept me alert. My thoughts whirled about the events of the day. A day that had seemed to last forever.

The devastation of seeing Armand handling his mistress with such affection, my headlong flight to escape, the encounter with Erik and my confused feelings of seeing him once again. The heated moments, against his body, his mouth moving over mine. Then the interlude in my room, his hands calmly and slowly dressing me. Seeing Christine return on the arm of Raoul, the joy of her expectantcy glowing on her face. The moment looking at them from my small place behind the curtain and the slow, soft whisper of what I truly, reluctantly, felt for my captor.

The darkness that had fallen over the Opera, knowing who had caused it and _why._

I turned, taking in a long shuddering breath, my shoulders shaking from the cold, and faced the wall, one hand clutching the covers to me, the other idly tracing the rose and gilt wallpaper with my fingertips, which were rapidlybecoming numb.

I never even knew the mirror slid open behind me until the bed sagged beneath his weight. He stretched out beside me anddraped an arm over my waist, pulling a thick velvet blanket along with him, scented heavily with spice and candle smoke, and let it settle over us both. I listened with shock as his boots thumped softly to the arm about my middle pulled me close,until I felt theheat ofhis body through contact made my mouth go dry, and I laidperfectly still, hardly daring to breathe, else I wake up from this dream,my head nestled in my pillow, my fingers unmoving upon the wall. He kissed the curve of my shoulder then spoke, his voice low andsensual in the darkness

"Warmer now, my dear? Perhaps you can tell me what you thought of my little performance tonight?"


	23. Chapter Twenty-Two

**Chapter 22**

His question lay between us. It was a demand, really, rather than a question. A demand for me to acknowledge that he had decided to resurface, even if it had been in a flicker of mere lights, surely a paltry accomplishment for a man who had very nearly destroyed the lives of so many. He lay beside me, in this mock lovers embrace, his hand on my stomach tracing lazy circles into the lawn of my shift, silent, waiting for me to speak, to accept that he was about to bring me into this plot of which I did not want a part, but could not refuse the role he had selected me for.

"You caused the darkness."

My whisper was hoarse, barely discernable.

Behind me he chuckled, a low sound that made my blood run cold.

"My dear," he hissed, coldly pronounciating the endearment as he always did, "I _am_ the darkness."

I couldn't repress my shiver at the ice in his voice and the stark reality of his statement. He was a dark angel, relentlessly assaulting my senses through his threatening but seductive touches, making me feel the hated weakness that only my own submission could, and at the same time he had begun to drag me out of the shadows, into the light. I had not truly ever lived until that moment he'd stepped from that mirror into my room. My world, so gray and dead, had suddenly sprang to vivid life. I couldn't imagine how any woman, even Christine, could have willingly left this man, who seemed to command your attention and enthrall you even while he terrified you. But, I reminded myself, I'd never seen what lay behind the mask and I'd never seenhim kill. Both could change everything.

Behind me, he was silent, a brooding presence at my back. The room was draped in stillness and darkness. I realized I felt the thump of his heart through my back where his chest was pressed.

Finally, I swallowed the lump that had formed in my throat and asked the question I knew he was waiting to hear with baited breath.

"Why are you doing this?" My voice was soft, and I detested the hint of pleading in it.

He gathered me closer to him with the arm about my middle and laid his head upon the curve of my shoulder, a heavy solid weight, and I could feel his eyes on my face. I did not doubt for an instant that he could see my features clearly in the utter darkness.

"You were cold. I brought you a blanket." The arm that was draped across my pillow above my head shifted, and he began to slowly brush my loose hair behind my ears in slow, repetitive movements, his fingertips coming in contact with my temple occasionally. I pulled my mind together enough to point out to him that he would not only come to me if he thought mecold. I knew he did nothing without an ulterior motive, but I did not voice that thought.

He chuckled softly once again, and his hand never stilled upon my hair.

"So mistrusting, my dear Genn. Have I ever given you a reason to not trust me?"

I kept silent, his question underserving of an answer.

"But you would be correct, my dear, in believing that I am hear for a reason other than to keep your shivering form warm. I've decided what your next task will be. A simple one, no doubt. But one I will need you to complete as soon as possible."

I waited, still staring at the wall. I had the suspiscion that this new task would be a part in his resurfacing as the unseen master of the Opera and the fates of all in it.

"What must I do?" I whispered, my voice trembling.

"Wise girl." He pulled the blanket higher about us. "I have decided that it has been far too long that I have ignored my music. I have not composed or even played in over a year and I have found that my muse is once again clamoring for my attention."

I remembered that in the many tales I'd been told, the Opera that had been performed the night the chandelier fell had been by Erik's own hand, an assault of the senses, a deeply sexual and virulent work that had shocked as well as it had aroused.

"What would you have mepurchase? I have no money saved. My winter wardrobe took all that I had saved." And my first wages had been used to buy his materials for his suits,of which I could feel only the trousers and flowing shirt currently on his body.

"Genevieve, you are an intelligent woman. Surely you can see that the only reason your own monies were used for my clothing was to keep you from running. You would not have been able to live long on no funds, and by the time you had completed my suits, I believe, my dear, that you were well aware of how much you would risk by disobeying me. No, I believe I can supply you with the gold this time."

My eyes shut tightly on tears. _How he had manipulated me!_ I could never doubt that this man that my treacherous heart had set on so firmly was not all the dangerous things that were said about him.

"Why so silent, mademoiselle? You should know by now that your fate has been decided for you by my hand." His hand at my hair lowered and stoked my cheek slowly, but stilled when he found the slow moving tracks of my tears. He was silent for what seemed an eternity as he traced my eyes, the moisture welling under my lashes then rolling onto his fingertips.

He finally moved, gathering me close than turning me in his arms to face him. I bowed my head in humiliation. I had endured his machinations for nearly a month now and I had never cried in front of him. I had just given him so much more power over me.

He shocked me as he pressed my head against his chest, his hand brushing gently through my hair, the other slowly rubbing up and down my spine under the blankets. I hiccuped softly against the V of bare skin my face was nestled against, trying to will the weak tears to stop. But I only hicupped again and shuddered then caught my voice on a choked sob. I felt like such a fool.

"I will leave you a note tommorow, detailing what you are to procure for me, and a packet of money. For now, I think you need to sleep. I can't have you weak and sluggish tommorow as you find my needs for me, now can I?" He kissed my temple gently and murmured the words softly against my skin.

My head under his, I wiped at my tears, then hesistantly touched his chest with wonder, sinking my fingers into the ungiving muscle under the white lawn. "Thank you." I whispered.

He stilled above me and I then felt him breathe deeply, his body grow tense, then gradually relax with some unnamed emotion. He loosened his arms about me to pull away.

I shocked myself by clutching his shirt before he could let go. "Please, stay. Just a bit longer." I bit my lip in the darkness, not believing that I had asked this man, who was using mefor his purposes and held my life and freedom in his hands, to stay holding me a while longer. But I'd never been held before, not without pain quickly following, and the feel of his body against mine in the darkness, surrounding mine, and the warmth of his arms was something that I wasn't ready to relinquish.

He did not speak for so long I wondered if he'd even heard me, but then he gathered me close again.

"As you wish," he whispered, his voice thick and husky.

I dared to put a hand against his chest, and the other about his back. The muscles under my touch tensed, then gradually relaxed.

"I'll stay until you fall asleep," he promised. I nodded against his chest.

We were silent, our breathing the only sound in the room. Then I felt his throat swell slightly and begin to vibrate.

He began to sing to me, a lullaby in a foreign tongue.

I closed me eyes as his voice, low, soft and undescribably beautiful wove through my senses, drifting and weaving about the little room. I found myself raising my fingers to his lips, wondering how a mere man could take sound and make it a living, breathing thing. His soft, firm mouth formed the words against my fingertips.

The music wrapped itself about my mind, lulling me into a deep sleep, where he lay beside me just like this, but the music was his soft moans in my ear as he loved me.

When the sounds of activity in the corridor outside my room finally woke me, he was no longer there. The place beside me was still warm and I knew he had fallen asleep as well. On the pillow beside my head was a note and a packet of money as promised.

_My Genevieve:_

_Please take the song as thanks for the task which lies before you today. Enclosed you will find my list, a brief one for this time. I will give you notice when I will require more. _

_I fully expect these item to be waiting for me before the performance tonight. Do not risk my disappointment._

_Signed,_

_Erik_

I slowly folded the letter and returned it to the envelope. The intimacy of the night was gone, but I found my palm stroking the warm place where he had lay. He's slept beside me all night long. I felt a small, glimmer of hope.

And then I remembered the exinguish of the lights, and the glimmer died.


	24. Chapter Twenty-Three

**Chapter 23**

After finally rising from my bed and dressing in my new lavender blue wool gown and carefully brushing out the tangled curls from sleeping and arranging my hair in a neat chignon and donning my spectacles, I gathered the packet of money, the note, and my cloak and left my room. As I walked across the glistening marble floor of the Grand Foyer, a voice called me from the second floor.

I quickly tucked the bills and the letter under my cloak and turned to watch Meg Giry trotting down the staircase in an apple green gown that suited her perfectly. She was tossing a light pelisse about her shoulders and tied it off about her throat as she came to stand before me.

"Where are you off to?" She asked I resumed walking to the front entrance.

I turned to her, reaching out and snapping off a loose thread of her pelisse. Such details bothered me to no end. She grinned and thanked me.

"I have bit of shopping to do for a friend," I explained, keeping my voice light and tinged with a touch of annoyance, "who can't seem to do anything for himself. Rather weak minded, I'm afraid, always calling on me to do the things that he could surely do himself." I inwardly smirked, hoping that Erik was listening. The mornings and afternoons before a performance were my only free time that I had, and I was feeling a little irate that I should have to spend my hours off, searching for his list of needs. The warmth and intimacy of the night spent in his arms had quickly worn off as soon as I'd read his list of demands. Pipe organ fittings. _Pipe organ fittings! _Where was I to procure pipe organ fittings? And a specific list of size and pitch for each one. The violin strings also were very specifically listed, along with the bee pollen that he wanted for them. The staff lined paper would not be a difficulty, I was sure, and neither would a box of good fountain pens. But the fittings, strings, and pollen wax worried me. I'd never been musically inclined, though I could sit enraptured for hours and listen to it. Would it be too much to hope for that one musician's shop would carry all I needed?

Beside me Meg snickered. "Why don't you tell him to go hang? You could be doing so much better things, liking shopping for yourself, which is what I'm off to do."

The corners of my mouth lifted in an ironic smile.

"Believe me, Meg. Telling this particular friend to "go hang" would not be very amusing at all to him." _He'd be much more likely to go hang _me.

Meg decided to accompany me upon my errands, much to my chagrin. I explained that I would probably be out all day until only a couple of hours before the performance, but she smiled and stated she would leave me when she needed. I had no choice but to let her trot along beside me. It would have been awkward to explain that the items I looked for were highly private things that I did not wish anyone to know I was buying.

First, though, she dragged me to a reasonably priced modiste who catered more to the flirtatious, daring side of young ladies her age. She wanted a new gown to wear for a dinner the following night; a group of select friends from the cast were going to a _haute monde_ restaurant with the Chagnys and she didn't want to be embarassed in front of her dear friend who now had the best of everything. I knew she missed Christine greatly and would have loved to have had her here with her, helping her pick out something appropriate. So I swallowed my impatience to get the items to Erik as quickly as possible and donned the role of older sister, gently steering her away fromchoices that would display her ample assets a bit _too_ generously, toward more demure but still enticing gowns that would enhance her figure with simple lines and subtle grace rather than outright brazeness. I had been her age once and of the circle that Christine and Raoul now traveled in. I knew the thoughts that may wing through the mind of one of their male chums if they should go accompanied. Young, beautiful opera singers and ballet dancers were the most popular choice for a mistress. I wanted no one getting the wrong impression of Meg, who'd I begun to develop motherly feelings for.

She finally decided upon, with much urging from me, a champagne colored off the shoulder gown with tiny gatherings of mint stitching among the sleeves, _decolletage,_ and hem. The color was a perfect foil for her ivory and rose complexion and her pale green eyes. She quickly paid for it, thanking me profusely and as we left the shop, slipping her small arm through mine as we continued our walk. I smiled down upon the top of her golden head and promised her she'd give Christine a run for her money.

As we walked along the cobbled street I asked her if there were any musician shops in the general vicinity.

"Musician shops?" She bit her lips, thinking. "There's one on the next street over. Whatever does your friend need from a music shop?"

I cast about for a likely story, then:

"Well, he's a composer, and he's been ill for quite some time. He doesn't want to leave the house quite yet, so I'm afraid he's imposed upon me for his supplies." It sounded believable.

"Oh, has heever hadany work published?"

"Um, only one. And unfortunately it flopped, _quite_ badly on opening night. He's been terribly depressed about it since, and is just now beginning to recover." _I hope you have magical hearing, Erik. Did you like that little touch?_

"Where was his opening night performed?"

"Oh, just a small trifling theatre." I quickly changed the subject, discussing how she would her hair tommorow night.

Meg waited outside the shop, _thank heavens_, as I purchased Erik's supplies for him. There were very few composers whowere in possesion ofso damaged a pipe organ. It would have been astonishingly easy to make the connection.

The small shop, fortunately, carried each one of the fittings and also the violin strings and very specific bee pollen wax. It was quite possible that this was the merchant from whom Erik had purchased supplies in the past.

The staff paper and pens were readily available, and a moment later, I carried a brown paper wrapped box with each item wrapped in tissue paper, the pipe fittings wrapped in cheese cloth. I greeted Meg and we journeyed back to the Opera House.

The Grand Foyer was already alive with activity, cleaning staff on their hands and knees carefully waxing the floor. The flowers from last night were being taken out of their urns and exchanged for fresh ones. I couldn't help but notice that the glass bisque lights were being examined for any problems.

Beside me as we began to make our way up the staircase and to the long corridors which would lead to our seperate wings,Meg made a thoughtful sound.

"Last night, Genevieve, when the lights suddenly went out, even the candles..." She looked at her feet as they carried her, then up at me, her brow furrowed. "That's only happened one time before."

My breath caught in my throat.

"When?" I managed to get out.

"The night that Christine first disappeared, when the Phantom of the Opera first took her away. It just...reminded me so much of that night."

I was silent behind her, my fears, I believed, confirmed. He meant to come back, to reign again, and I wondered what that could possibly mean for the Chagnys.

And myself.

In my room, after locking the door behind me, I turned and found Erik lounging on my bed, one hand draped languidly off the side, the other holding a new Jane Austen that Marie had loaned to me, his left leg bent at the knee and his right straight out in front of him

He nodded to me, acknowledging my presence, but not bothering to look up from the book, his eyes narrowed as he read, the left corner of his mouth pulled down thoughtfully in a frown. He had discarded his coat and cravat, and was dressed in the dark gold waistcoat and a ruffled white lawn shirt. I found myself studying him beneath my lashes as I removed my cloak and hung it up. I noticed the slight lines at the corner of his left eye and wondered how old Erik was. His were a bit deeper and more prounounced than the ones at the corners of my own. Perhaps he was five to ten years older?

I bent and retrieved the parcel of his items and came to the bed with it. I sat on the edge, his legs behind me. He continued to read, turning the pages at an astonishing pace. Suprisingly, the silence was not uncomfortable, and for the first time I did not feel any intimidation or fear in his presence.

I began removing the brown paper, the only sounds in the room the crinkle of the wrapping, the turn of pages behind me and his occasional soft snort at obviously something that amused him, and the clock ticking on the dresser. It was a lazy sort of peace that stole over me, a wholly unfamiliar sensation in the presence of a man, and I found myself smiling softly as I opened the box to see if all the items were undamaged from the walk here. After seeing that they were indeed as they should be, I closed the box back and set it upon the floor by himso that he could take it when he wished. I reached beneath the bed, bent at the waist and retrieved another book that I had borrowed, the novel following the one that Erik was currently perusing and that I'd already read myself. I lifted my legs upon the bed and arranged my skirts over them before opening to the page I had last read and unfolding the little dog ear. I glanced at the clock. There was a generous three hours before the performance, which gave me at least an hour in which to read.

Behind me I heard Erik sit up a bit. Then he reached for my shoulder and pulled me back to him slightly. I looked up at him. He motioned for me to move closer to him, so I did and he lowered me gently onto his chest, one arm about my shoulder the other holding his book, his elbow propped on his knee. I rested my head upon his shoulder and held my book with both hands, reading.

I felt his gaze on the top of my head and I looked up.

"Comfortable?" He raised his visible brow.

"Yes, thank you."

And for the first time, I smiled at him.


	25. Chapter Twenty-Four

**Chapter 24**

As I reclined on the bed within the crook of his arm, my mind did not stay long upon my book.

_This is what a marriage should feel like_.

I wasn't married to Erik, of course, and I probably would never be married again, especially to him, but the quiet companionship in the room suffused me with a warm glow while making the words on the page blur with tears at the same time.

Last night, lying in my small bed with him stretched along side, his hands soothing my back and his voice gently carrying me into sleep, I'd realized that this was what I had been denied in my marriage to Armand. In my wildest dreams, I'd never thought that I'd let a man lie beside me again. The fear and choking terror that overcame me any time a man came close to me had been a constant companion since my marriage had ended, and until last night it had also been a reality anytime that Erik was near me, but even in a more fierce form. This man, who was manipulating me so unfeelingly, had filled me with a horrible sensation of impending violence at all times. Even while my unexperienced heart pounded with excitement at even being in the same room with him, I had also known that he wouldn't hesitate to resort to force to get what he wanted.

But last night, when he'd found me crying and the tension and threat that always seemed to invest his body had seemed to dissapate, and he'd turned me and held me close to him, the fear had left, the smothering need to run had ran itself, and I had been left with only the pleasure of being held for the first time with no promise of violence to follow. And I'd wanted to experience it, damn the consequences. I'd asked him to stay, knowing that if he wanted, he could use the night to gain more power, but in that moment, I didn't care.

And now reading with him in this quiet room, neither of us speaking. I'd never felt at ease in the same room alone with Armand. Under my feet had been a constant frozen lake, ready to give and shatter into a million pieces at the drop of a pin. I had never even been able to breathe normally, my muscles in my abdomen always clenched in fear. I'd never forget an incident one evening in the dead of winter when he'd sat in his study, he behind his desk, perusing a newspaper, me on the _chaise_, a book in my hands. I'd taken too deep a breath and sighed when I'd exhaled. He'd been in front of me in a moment, his hand bruising my chin, coldly telling me that if I was so impatient to be gone of him and escape to my pursuits outside of our home, that he could assist me. He'd dragged me to the French doors, flinging me outside in my evening dinner gown into the walled courtyard, then locking the doors. I'd known that if I pounded on the glass or raised any cry at all, my punishment would be all that more severe. I'd sat upon a stone bench, huddled into myself. When he had finally opened the door and had a footman carry me in, I hadn't even been able to speak, so overcome with cold I was. My maid had had to lay heated bricks in my bed, trying to get my blood circulating again...

I pushed the memory away and basked in the warmth of the body behind me, the slow thump of his heart, the steady inhale and exhale of his chest. _Why couldn't I have met Erik at the age of twenty, before he had ever laid eyes on Christine?_

A sudden knock on my door had him tensing, his muscles turning into steel. I quickly stood and straightened my skirts and turned to him on the bed. All the warmth of his face had left, leaving the cold lines and ice filled eyes. I raised a finger to my lips to tell him to keep silent and unlocked the door and opened it slightly, peeking outside. Jeanette and Marie stood outside and smiled at me.

"Madame Lefevre would like us to meet her in the costume room in ten minutes. Two of the dressers ate a meal last night together and they both are in their beds with stomach ails. We shall have to assist with changes tonight." Marie informed me that my afternoon had come to an end.

I assented and promised I'd be down to the department in a moment. They'd smiled and took their leave of me.

When I turned after locking the door once more, the package from the musician shop, the coat, the loose cravat, and Erik were gone. I hadn't even had the chance to thank him for his companionship.

Three hours later, the auditorium was in darkness, only the stage lights and the massive chandelier casting light as the curtain opened to a full house once again for the second night of Le Baudelaire.

The three of us stood under the drop flies that were not to be used, the walkways above us, the twins quietly chatting, I leaning against a prop tree with my hands clasped behind my back. A large grouping of dress forms and racks was placed to our right, ready for the numerous costume changes of the show.

The _corps de ballet_ were currently on stage, a brilliant swirling kaleidoscope of aqua and scarlet. Meg was once again dancing the role of La Sorelli, whose ankle was still terribly swollen from her fall.

As the twins moved away to chat to a friend, I felt a presence beside me and looked over to see Madame Giry standing there, her hands on her hips, her critical eyes on her pupils.

She was silent for a time, then spoke.

"I wanted to thank you for accompanying Meg today. She showed me the gown. Exactly what I hoped she would choose to wear." Her voice carried a tinge of weariness, and I knew she was thinking of the many choices that could be offered to a young, beautiful ballet dancer amongst the right company.

"Meg seems an intelligent girl," I whispered aside to her. She smiled slightly and nodded.

"Yes, yes she is. I've tried my best to raise her well. I've warned her not to sell herself short. Too many of my girls, Genevieve, have become the mistresses of patrons: whores, who take fancy dinners and jewels and bragging rights as payment rather than money. I always fear that she will be approached with an offer so enticing she may not be able to resist."

Beside her I was silent. I knew too well the lengths that a young blade would go to have that opera singer or dancer that had caught his fascination and his lust. During our marriage, I knew that Armand had had many conquests outside of our bed and many from the theatres. I'd not minded, _wanting_ him to find his pleasure elsewhere as most noblemen did. I was still often his convenient way to slake his lust, but any time that he took someone else rather than me was a relief.

"What kind of man do you hope for Meg for a husband?" I asked.

"I suppose it would be too much to ask for another Raoul de Chagny to grace our theatre looking for love rather then flesh, but I should like to see her well taken care of. I know she's very envious of Christine and all she has." Her gaze shifted out to the audience and I followed her direction to the box where the Vicomte and his exquisite wife sat once again. There were rumors that Raoul once again wanted to extend his patronage to the Opera Populaire.

"Raoul loves Christine very dearly, doesn't he?" I asked quietly.

I felt her eyes on my face, but I didn't look at her.

"Yes, very much. He's devoted to her, he'd do anything for her, she'd have only to ask."

"And Christine feels the same way toward him, as well?" The question tumbled out before I even knew it and I bit my tongue, knowing that my voice had been tinged with hope.

Beside me, Madame Giry stepped closer. She took my hand in hers and place it under her arm.

"Yes, she loves him. She has no regrets. She would never leave Raoul." Her voice was quiet, but it held a hint of warning. I knew what she hinted at. Love was not easily forgotten and not easily gotten over. When someone loved deeply, it took a great deal to heal if that love was rejected.

"Their having a child," I whispered, "will keep her protected from those who would want to...approach her with an offer, wouldn't it?" I was familiar with, as well, those who enjoyed bedding the wives of others in their circle, but that was not what I was alluding to.

Her gray eyes met mine, and the sadness in them, and the memory of the darkness last night seemed to speak from their depths.

"I desperately hope so." Her murmur was quiet and low, but I heard the fear.

The next thing I said was a foolish slip, and after I'd said it, I had immediately wished to take it back, but the impending sense of doom had returned on the stage which seemed so far away from my little room and the memories there of the last several hours.

"Anyone who would attempt to take Christine away from Raoul would be a fool. Anyone can see the joy on their faces in each other and this new life growing between them. It would be utterly hopeless." My voice was low and vehement and I felt Madame Giry's startled eyes on my face. Her gaze was wide and I knew I had spoken something that I would regret. She opened her mouth to speak, no doubt to warn me again about the guarding of my heart.

From above us came a loud _whoosh_, the sound of something heavy cutting the air at a quick pace. We looked up and with a cry, threw ourselves free of the massive backdrop that crashed onto the stage, missing us only by mere inches. I landed hard my hands and knees, slipping and collapsing on the hard wood, my right temple cracking against the floor with a dull thud. Madame Giry was on her backside, her eyes riveted above us.

I turned my head and looked up, my temple pounding where it had cracked upon the stage.

On the catwalk high above us, standing in the gloom was a cloaked shadow, a cold face, a white mask and a pair of burning eyes blazing into mine.

Around us, there was a cry as members of the cast rushed to us. But my eyes remained on the figure above me

I opened my mouth to speak, but no sound came out only a choked whimper of disbelief.

In a swirl of cloak he was gone.


	26. Chapter Twenty-Five

**Chapter 25**

The crash of the backdrop did not disturb the performance. The music on stage had been sufficiently loud enough to cause the resounding crack of the pole upon the stage and the subsequent cries of the cast backstage to not be heard. No one in the auditorium or in the private boxes were aware that the infamous Opera Ghost had once again made his presence known. Actually, no one but Madame Giry and I knew that it had indeed been he who had caused the drop to fall.

Upon the stage, I was lifted up in the arms of a stagehand. When I had tried to stand up on my own, the room had spun, a dizzying swirl of faces and flys and catwalks above me, and I'd collapsed. My temple was pounding so horribly I thought I might be ill and I could feel the area quickly swelling. Jacques, a burly flyman, scooped me up and carried me off to a more secluded part of the backstage area. The twins followed, their pretty faces drawn in anxiety with Madame Lefevre behind them, her eyes dark with concern. Carlotta and several chorus members gathered around as Jacques carefully laid me down on the floor.

Madame Giry was being supported by one of the tenors, leaning heavily on her cane, which I had never actually seen her use. She straightened and assured everyone that she was allright. She had landed on her back rather than cracking her head as I had.

She hurried over and cradled my face gently in her hands looking at my temple and touching it gingerly causing me to moan softly in pain. I was breaking out in a cold sweat and there were tears on my cheeks.

But not from the pain in my body. My heart was a leaden weight in my chest. The rest of me simply felt hollow.

Later that night, I was resting upon my bed, a damp cloth over my swollen, violently bruised temple. My head was pounding with a ferocity that made every sound of a horrible volume. My stomach was churning in my abdomen, everytime I shifted or even breathed making the pain worse, causing bouts of powerful nausea.

My hands which were holding my stomach were bruised badly on my palms and my knees were stiff with pain. The room was completely dark except for a single candle that Madame Giry had left. I could hear her in the hallway coming toward my room.

"Her head, her temple, hit the stage quite bad. It's swollen horribly and very bruised. She'll have a terrible headache for at least a couple of days. Let me see if she wants to see you..." she opened the door as she spoke to someone in the hall and came to me quietly, laying her hand on my shoulder.

"My dear?" she asked softly.

I swallowed and spoke, my voice low and quiet, trying to avoid making my head throb no more badly then it already did.

"Yes?"

"Meg, and the Chagnys are outside. They would like to see you. I'm afraid Meg's been crowing about you all night to them for helping her earlier. Is it alright to allow them in?"

I stared at her, not knowing what to say. If Erik had been furious enough to send the backdrop crashing toward me, what would he do if he stood behind the mirror while the object of his adoration and her husband made conversation and questioned me about what had happened. He would be watching every move, every word, to see if I would betray him in any way.

_And why shouldn't I?_

He had deliberately attempted to hurt me and involuntarily had. After last night, sleeping close to him, enclosed in his arms and mine about him, after our quiet moment today, reading with his arm about me and my head on his chest. All that had flown in the face of hearing me state that he was a fool for still wanting Christine, whom I could no longer deny his plans seemed to be closing in around. He was unpredictable, volatile, and a murderer. While his gentlemanly side and even his tenderness existed beneath the facade, he was much more the manipulator, the wrathful god-like being that I had first come in contact with. _How had I ever let myself forget that that side of him existed?_

I turned to Madame Giry and nodded, and I felt the hot flood of tears again. She stroked her palm down my face and then suprised me by kissing my forehead. She stood and walked to the door, and quietly invited them in.

Meg appeared first, coming over gracefully and sitting by the bed, still dressed in her costume.

"You'll get dirt on that," I said weakly, with a smile.

Behind her I heard Raoul's boyish laugh.

"Her poor head coshed in and she still thinks about costumes." He came to stand beside my head and placed a small bouquet of flowers on the nightstand. "How are you feeling, mademoiselle? We heard about your accident from Meg and after our little meetings, we wanted to make sure you were not seriously injured." His face had turned grave.

I gestured toward my head, the movement making the room spin. "It hurts badly, my lord, but no permanent damage, I'm sure. Thank you." Even speaking was wearisome.

"What happened, exactly?" Christine de Chagny came to stand beside her husband and sunk to sit along with Meg.

I cleared my throat over the lump, catching the eyes of Madame Giry, who looked away quickly. I knew she had not give away Erik's presence above us in the flys.

My eyes fell on the large silent mirror. I knew that Erik stood behind it, could practically feel his gaze boring into mine waiting for the words to fall from my lips that would send him running once more. I thought about all the times he'd intimidated me, forcefully backed me against a wall, pinned me beneath him and nearly crushed my wrists, manipulated me into doing his bidding, then the sight of him far above me in the shadows of the flys, his face so cold and cruel, watching him silently stalk off. And I thought of my hand that he'd stitched up, the night he'd scooped me up off the rooftop and saved me from freezing, the song in the dark, his head above mine as he read silently, the first kiss I'd ever truly enjoyed, in that cold, stone hallway. His eyes right before I'd laid my mouth to his, when he believed I had betrayed him.

I turned back to Christine, her face lit softly by the single candle.

"Merely an accident, I'm sure," I said quietly.

They stayed by my bedside a short while longer, then took their leave of me, except for Madame Giry, who helped me into my night shift, as I still could not stand without fearsome dizziness and nausea. She carefully removed the pins from my hair and braided it down my back, then assisted me under the covers. If she thought the deep gold velvet blanket upon my plainly white linen clad bed odd, she said nothing. Erik had left it with me for warmth.

She bid me a good night and gave me a promise to check on me in the morning and blew out the candle and quietly left the room. I was left in utter darkness.

I turned slowly onto my side, swallowing back the nausea and settled myself, facing away from the mirror. I did not want to have to look at it. Or see him as he came in the room, which I knew he would.

I didn't have long to wait.

The mirror slid open almost soundlessly and I heard the whisper of his cloak against his legs, then the mirror closing. I didn't speak, but tears had begun to roll slowly down my cheeks.

He said nothing. I could hear his deep breathing, blending oddly with the shuddering breaths I took.

Finally, with my eyes closed over my tears, I spoke:

"I could have betrayed you." My voice was quiet and flat, barely above a whisper.

He was silent. Finally his low murmur reached me.

"I know."

I opened my eyes and stared at the wallpaper.

"I don't know what you are planning, Erik. But I do know this. You very nearly hurt Madame Giry tonight, as well. I was the one who said what I did, not her. She's innocent of this, of your return. No, please, don't deny it. I'm no fool, Erik. But keep one thing in mind," my voice remained flat, emotionless, "there's only so much that you can do before they realize it's you. And I won't be able to lie for you any longer. Right now, you have the upper hand over me, but if they realize that you are resurfacing, no manipulations will keep them from finding you."

The room fell silent again. Then I heard him approach me. His fingers touched my bruised temple softly. Then I felt his knee upon the bed and his hand curved gently about my shoulder, tryng to make me face him. I wouldn't.

He lowered his body alongside mine and put his arms around my middle to gather me close to him.

His voice was strained and low. "Genevieve..."

"No. Please. Just go." I whispered, resisting the warm strength of his body. "Leave me."

He was silent.

"As you wish," he whispered hoarsely.

The mirror opened and slid closed.

I began to sob in earnest.


	27. Chapter Twenty-Six

**Chapter 26**

I had hurt her.

In that moment, when I'd stood in the flies, looking out at the audience, my gaze riveted on the sight of my Christine and that damned boy, then heard Genevieve below me, her voice low and vehement, claiming that I was a fool for even imagining I could have Christine again, I'd flown into a rage. This troublesome wench thought that she knew me so well! She knew I had to have been listening! Then she went on to extoll to Antoinette how love flowed between them, how this new child was their joy, how _hopeless_ it would be to seperate them. _How dare that little bitch call my bluff!_

The act of whipping the rope off of the anchor on the catwalk had been astonishingly easy; I'd done it many a times to Carlotta when she had pained my ears to the point of insanity. As the massive drop had plummeted to the stage, I hadn't even cared when I'd realized that it would fall directly upon them. _Damn her for her bloody impertinence. She'll rue the day she insulted the Phantom of the Opera!_

They had looked up, Antoinette's face frozen: she knew the sound well, Genevieve's expression curious, then terrified, and they'd flung themselves out of the way. Antoinette had used her cane for balance and turned as she fell. Genevieve had had nothing to catch her: she landed upon her knees and palms at a bone jarring speed and slipped, the right side of her head striking the stage with an audible crack that I had even heard from far above them.

They'd looked up at me, Antoinette's face hardening with recognition of me, Genevieve's eyes widening with pain, her stare already glossy from the striking of her head, and she'd made a small whimper of disbelief. My eyes had remained riveted to hers, letting my hate blaze into her. Then I'd left, feeling a thrill of satisfaction, my mouth curved in a feral smile, my chest rising and falling savagely with triumph. She'd learn never to believe herself in my good graces. _Oh, no, my dear_! I did not suffer impertinence from my subjects!

My glee had not lasted long. As I'd stood behind the mirror, waiting with baited breath to see how angry she would be and ready to punish her for her disobediance, a stagehand had carried her in. My smile had frozen on my face.

Her lightly freckled cheeks were stained with tears, her brown eyes glazed over with pain. Her right temple was twice the size that it should have been and already a gruesome shade of black and blue. She was clutching her stomach tightly. He had laid her upon the bed, Antoinette hurrying after him, a bowl of water in her hands, and a towel over her arm.

On the small day bed, Genevieve had curled into a small ball, her hands about her middle, whimpering softly in the back of her throat. Antoinette had coaxed her onto her back, telling her that the dizziness and nausea would not be so bad in that position. She'd complied, her hand coming up to clutch at her mouth as she'd turned. Antoinette had placed a soaked rag over her temple and told her to lie still, thanked the stagehand, dismissed him, then went about the room turning down the lamps, until only a candle lit the room.

I hadn't been able to take my eyes off the long, slim figure on the bed. Even in the low light, her temple was horrifyingly bruised and swollen. She would be in tremendous pain, her stomach most likely rolling in agony. Her eyes were blinking at the ceiling, tears rolling into her hair, her mouth was swollen with crying. I had wanted nothing more than to go to her, take her in my arms and kiss the tracks of her tears until she stopped weeping, then bury myself in her responsive warmth and love heruntil she forgave me and I could forgive myself.

I had stepped back from the mirror quickly, my eyes going wide. I had never had such fiercely physical thoughts of her before. _What was wrong with me?_ One moment, she insulted my desire and need to have Christine back with me in my home and I nearly kill her, the next I see the results of my rage and want to love her with my body to seek her forgiveness. My fierce desire for Christine and the ferocity of my feelings at seeing her in my Opera with her husband and a child on the way had seemed to color all my thinking. It wasn't this woman that I wanted, but my exquisite angel. I felt remorse over hurting Genevieve and perhaps my actions had been a bit extreme, but nothing to warrant transferring my desire for Christine to her.

Then Antoinette had left the room and returned with her daughter, my beloved and her accursed husband. Raoul had laughed and given Genevieve flowers and she'd struggled for a smile for him. Behind the mirror, I was seething. _He thought to woo everyone, didn't he? Stay away from my little seamstress, boy!_

Christine had asked her what had happened, and Genevieve's eyes had gone to the mirror. She had no idea that she looked straight into mine. I watched anger pass over her face, then sorrow, then an emotion I couldn't name. I waited for her word that would send me to my lair, running once again.

An accident, she'd murmured. I'd stared at her, hardly believing that after what I had done, she would not betray me. But she'd turned back to Christine and affected a small shrug, then thought better of it, her hand rising to her mouth in sickness. They had excused themselves after that.

Antoinette helped her rise from the bed, Genevieve clinging to her weakly, and helped her to undress. I stood behind the mirror, feeling like a lecher, as her slender body was revealed to the single candle, then covered with a thin night shift. She lowered herself gingerly to her vanity, her hand over her eyes, one over her abdomen as Antoinette let down her long hair and then braided it down her narrow back. She'd assisted her into bed, covering her and promising to check upon her in the morning. She'd blown out the candle and left.

Genevieve had rolled slowly onto her side in the dark, away from the mirror, away from myself. I hadn't been able to stop my hand from depressing the mechanism and stepping into the room after the mirror slid shut behind me.

I knew from the way her shoulders shuddered slightly and herthe way her breath caughtin her throat that she had begun to cry again.

"I could have betrayed you."

Her voice was flat in the dark, barely reaching me. Her tears were not reflected in the phrase. I knew I would not find forgiveness this night.

"I know." And I did. After all I had done to her, it would have been astonishingly easy to betray me. If the roles had been reversed, I would not have hesistated.

She quietly and without emotion informed me that I had nearly hurt Antoinette as well. She had said what she had said, not Madame Giry. She knew that I would return. She acknowledged that she was still my pawn in this game I'd chosen to play, but that if I betrayed myself to the managers, she would not be able to lie for me any longer.

Then she'd fallen silent.

I'd approached her, wanting her to know, somehow, that I had regretted my harsh action against her. She couldn't know of how deep my desire and need for Christine ran; it wasn't her fault that I had reacted in such a rage.

I touched her temple with my ungloved hand, ill at how hard and tightly swollen theflesh was. My throat tightened thinking of how trustingly she'd laid in my arms the previous night, my first night with a woman in my embrace. The innocent way she'd touched my lips as I'd sung to her. Her vanilla fragrance rising from her warm skin throughout the night as she'd slept, her head curled against my chest. And this was how I'd repaid her.

I'd tried to turn her to me, but she wouldn't move, which was at odds with her usual responsiveness to my touch. Finally, I'd laid down beside her, wanting to feel her against me, so trustingly again, to sleep beside her again, maybe sing to her, a song for her forgiveness. I called her name, willing her to turn in my arms to me.

Her next words had been strained with tears.

"No. Please. Just go." She'd weakly shifted away from me. "Leave me."

She had finally learned to resist. All the trust and surrender she'd always responded to me with was gone. I had gone too far.

"As you wish." I'd stood and walked away from her huddled form on the bed. She would not forgive me. Had I actually believed she would?

As the mirror slid shut, her sobs began, broken and hurt. They followed me down the corridor. And finally, when I sat in front of my organ, my hand over my temple, a pencil lying useless in my hand as I tried to write, they still rang in my head.


	28. Chapter Twenty-Seven

**.**

**Chapter 27**

The next morning was no easier than the night before.

When I woke, my vision was severely blurred by all the tears I'd cried. The sickening pain in my temple was even worse, and I could not even bring myself to move from my position facing the wall, afraid that I would be ill. I wearily gave up and fell back to sleep.

I dreamed that when the backdrop had fallen and I'd looked up into the flies, it had been Armand standing there instead.

I awoke to Madame Giry sitting beside me on the bed and gently rubbing her hand up and down my spine to wake me.

"You should not sleep longer than necessery, Genevieve. It's not healthy after striking your head so hard. Here, you need to sit up." She turned and grasped my elbow and my opposite shoulder.

I shut my eyes tightly, gritted my teeth, and slowly rolled onto my back and gingerly pulled myself into a sitting posistion. The room spun for several long moments, and I breathed slow and deep through my nose to avoid being ill. After the nausea passed, I opened my eyes wearily. Madame Giry smiled gently at me and brushed a loose strand of hair out of my eyes.

"How does it look?" I asked softly, afraid to look at the mirror.

She gave a lopsided smirk.

"You want the truth, my dear?"

I nodded slightly, closing my eyes again.

"It's horrible. I do not think you will look yourself for several days at least. And you probably will not feel yourself, as well. I suggested to Madame Lefevre last night that she allow the twins to do the majority of the work tonight. Everyone seems to have settled into taking care of their costumes the correct way. You need to rest, perhaps we will get you a seat and you can watch the performance."

I laid back wearily against the pillows and studied my bruised palms. I had looked forward to having a chance to see the Opera Populaire perform its newest work, but I hadn't anticipated _this _happening to allow me to do it.

"Yes, I will need to get out of bed eventually. I'll never get over this nausea and dizziness until I do." I began to turn to get out from under the covers. Madame Giry restrained me.

"No. For right now, you need something to eat. Let me go down to the cafe and bring you some juice and perhaps a croissant. I do not think your customary coffee would agree with you this morning." I pulled a face at the thought, and she laughed, leaving me to retrieve breakfast.

I stared down at the luxurious, dark gold throw upon the bed, twisting the tasseled ends in my fingers, until I felt I could finally look at the mirror.

Nearly the entire right side of my face had swollen during the night, turning a deep purple, and my temple was of an abnormal size. My eyelid was inflamed and also bruised from the impact. I lifted a hand and gingerly touched the swelling. It had softened over night, no longer the hard mass it had been.

I looked horrible.

I felt tears begin to swell behind my eyes and my throat tightened, remembering Erik's presence in my room last night. He had touched me so gently, and then put his arms about me with a tenderness that had very nearly made me give in and turn to him, and let him hold me. But I couldn't forget the hate that he'd stared down at me with after he'd sent the backdrop down upon us. How could a man possibly be so different from one moment to the next? One moment I was very nearly wanting him with quiet desperation, the next: the thought of being in the same room with him terrified me. He frightened me more than Armand ever had: I knew what to expect from Armand. With Erik, it seemed to be a vicious circle of him treating me with such tenderness that my heart ached, the next coldy and carelessly abusing his power over me.

While his hoarse whisper of "As you wish" had made me feel as if I should call him back, and comfort and hold _him_, I couldn't forget the fact that he'd injured so very badly. He was someone to be terrified of, to watch with wary respect at all times. I had grown comfortable in the presence of his tender side. Last night had proved that was a dangerous past time.

I knew he wasn't through with me yet. The events of the previous night had shed a cold, unforgiving light on the fact that he was still madly in love, or _need_, with Christine. He had loved her with a desperation, an obsession, that had ruled out all thoughts of right and wrong, or so it came from Madame Giry, who I did not doubt for a moment knew all. Even now, with her very happily married and with child, he still wanted her and would stop at nothing to have her.

If he was willing to nearly kill me for condemning his need, then what more would he do if he decided to act upon that need?

Later, after I had ordered a bath and assured Madame Giry that I would be fine to bathe myself and dress, she took her leave of me, extracting a promise that I would not leave my room until after I had rested again. I promised her and she left.

I faced the tub of steaming water with apprehension. My muscles had stiffened horribly during the night lying in the same curled position and I very much needed the soak in the hot bath, but I dreaded all the movement bathing would require. My head still maintained its throbbing, although it was not as bad as it had been.

I finally steeled myself and slipped out of my robe, then managed to wiggle out of the shift. It was a struggle to release my hair out of the braid, trying to be careful of touching my face and temple.

I at last sunk into the bath very carefully, wincing as my bruised knees throbbed from hitting the stage so hard last night. But the near scalding water felt like heaven as my muscles instantly began to relax and un-tense. I laid back against the edge of the tub and closed my eyes wearily, the lovely heat and the wafting smell of my vanilla oil easing my mind as well as my body.

The minutes slowly ticked by on the clock behind me. My thoughts whirled about my mind, but I didn't dwell onto anything too long. Too much had happened in the last three days. I had kissed a man boldly and willingly, had fallen in love with that man, slept in his arms all night, found myself at last comfortable in the presence of this man; any man, for that matter, then nearly been killed by him. He'd come to me, seeking my forgiveness, and I'd turned him away, and suffered for it all night long.

After leaving Armand, I had believed that I would never love again. My husband and I had hardened my heart forever, it had seemed. I had loved Armand, in the beginning, and even far into the years of abuse and scorn, until finally I'd gone numb inside. Falling in love with Erik had been the last thing I'd wanted. Why my heart had chosen this hurt, destroyed, and angry man to give itself to, I knew not, only that it had. Erik himself was still in love with Christine. My feelings for him were as hopeless as his feelings for her. Neither of us would ever have the desires of our heart.

The water began to cool slightly and I realized I needed to hurry and wash my hair. I was to attend the performance tonight in the private box of the Chagnys, who had asked Madame Giry to invite me for them. Meg would be joining us tonight as well, as La Sorelli had recovered and was ready to dance her role once again, much to the younger dancer's chagrin. Christine had apparently begged Madame to give her the evening off so that Meg could keep her company all night. I had also been invited to the dinner at the lavish restaurant afterwards, with a promise of a moonlit winter walk in the gardens of the Jardin des Tuileries. I would have to use some stage paint to cover my horrible bruises, but if I felt up to it, the thought of an elegant dinner and a walk in good company sounded wonderful.

I slowly submerged my head in the water, hissing at the pain of it touching my tender skin at my temple. I sat back up, sputtering slightly and reached for my soap to lather my hair, not looking forward to trying to avoid the right side of my head. I couldn't find it and opened my eyes to look for the small bar.

And looked directly into Erik's eyes, kneeling by the tub.


	29. Chapter Twenty-Eight

**Chapter 28**

"Get out!" I screamed, crossing my arms over my breasts, sloshing water over the tub. I moved as far away as I could get from him. _How dare he just come in here while I was bathing!_

His eyes reflected a pained emotion for a moment, then cleared. He didn't move away but lifted his right hand. My soap was in his palm. I grabbed it from him, avoiding touching his skin. I sunk down in the water as far as I could, turning my knees away from him. I pointed toward the door. Then realized, and pointed toward the mirror instead.

"Go!" I shrieked, my temper rising steadily. He had respect for me, no respect for my privacy. He believed this whole damned opera his domain, where he could go where he pleased. I knew that he had probably been behind the mirror many a times when I'd bathed before, but he'd never dared come into the room while I was in the act. And after his murderous rage toward me last night upon the stage, if he believed that I would willingly accept him in my room while I was in a state of undresss, he was sorely mistaken. Even though my heart was pounding at the sight of him in his flowing shirt and ungloved hands, his hair mussed as if he'd ran his fingers through it all night long, I would not make a ninny out of myself and forgive him for what he'd done and this horrendous violation of my privacy.

His face hardened, his eyes flashing and he lunged at me, tearing the soap out of my hand.

"Genevieve! You are going to have a difficult time of it washing your hair and you do not need to be submerging your head with that temple so badly swollen. You could easily have a concussion..."

"Thanks to you!" I raged at him, my eyes throwing sparks as fiercely as his. I kept myself covered with my right arm and reached for my soap, but he held it out of my grasp.

"You do not," he growled, his expression turning murderous, "need to be submerging your head underwater. You will let me wash your hair for you and I will hold you down to rinse the lather out." He dipped his hand into the water, dampening the soap and began to roll it between his hands, creating a thick lather. I stared at him incredulously.

He expected me to accept his aid after nearly killing me? He was mad!

"I will not let you wash my hair! I can manage on my own perfectly well. I don't need your meaningless assistance!" I turned away from him, looking into the mirror, my breathing becoming harsh with my anger and my sorrow. In the reflection of ourselves, I watched as he closed his eyes and breathed deeply, then reached for my shoulder, his soapy hand curving about mythroat and turning me toward him gently but firmly. I resisted.

"Genevieve. Please. I won't be able to live with myself if I know that you fall unconcious in this water and drown, which is a very real possibility..."

I turned to him, and stared coldly at him.

"I know not how you live with yourself as it stands."

If I could have taken it back, I would have. But once the words had left my mouth, there was nothing I could do. I didn't even think about the fact that he might mistake my comment for being one about his deformity. The pain that overcame his beautiful eyes made me feel that I was a wretched creature, indeed.

He made to stood, his throat working, but I reached up and took his hand.

He looked down at me, his hair hanging over his mask slightly.

"Please. Come back, Erik. I didn't mean it as such. I only spoke of your violence last night." I pleaded with my eyes. I would never insult him for his disfigurement which he had no control over.

He nodded tightly and sunk back down beside me.

I was still for a moment, then finally I reached with one hand and pulled my wet hair over one shoulder and slid close to him beside the tub.

"This does not mean I am no longer angry with you, I want you to realize."

If only my voice could reflect the strength of my feelings.

He reached for my hair and began working his hands through the heavy, wet mass, the sounds of the lather spreading through the curls the onlysound in the room besides my clock.

His hands were gentle, massaging my scalp lightly, being very tender over my right temple and my face. I had never had my hair washed by a man or had any of my toilet assisted by a one. Armand would have never lowered himself to the role of servant: my maids had always aided me if I was injured and couldn't bathe myself.

Each time his bare fingers brushed my skin, I shivered slightly. My traitorous body wanted nothing more than to have him join me in the tub. I felt myself flush at the images that were conjured in my head. _Our damp bodies moving togetherslowly, the water sloshing overthe side..._No! Thankfully, he was behind me and could not see the scarlet staining my cheeks. I did not want him to get the impression that I would willingly forego my anger and submit to his touches again.

I felt his hands leave my hair and they slid up my back to cup my shoulders.

"Lean back," he murmured in my ear.

Keeping my hands firmly across my chest, I did as he said, one of his hands coming under my back, the other staying on my left shoulder and he lowered my head back into the water and worked his fingers through the strands, rinsing out the soap.

When he finished and quietly told me to sit back up, I obeyed, watching him over my shoulder ashe stood, then went to my bed, and lifted my dressing gown off the coverlet and came back to me and held it open for me to step into. I felt my cheeks grow warm.

"Please turn your head," I asked, turning my legs in the tub to stand up. He sighed, and turned his head, closing his eyes. I braced a hand on the side of the tub and stood, dripping the cooling water everywhere, shivering, and stepped into the robe he held out. He shifted his hold on it as I slipped my arms into the sleeves. His arms came around me frombehind as he closed the dressing gown over my waist. I waited with baited breath for him to remove them from around me, but he tied the sash for me, then stepped closer. My eyes sank closed as his arms tightened about me, his right hand on my left hip, his left coming up and closing about my right shoulder. He buried his face into the crook where my shoulders and throat met, breathing deeply. I felt his entire body tense.

"You have to leave now," I whispered. "Madame Giry will be here soon to check upon me."

We both knew that her impending presence was not the only reason he needed to go.

"I never..." he whispered into my throat, "I didn't..._Genn_...I didn't think when I..."

I pulled away from him pushing my damp hair out of my face, and walking towards the bed and sitting, staring at my bath wrinkled fingers. I wanted so badly for him to continue holding me. It was a precious contact that I had grown to love over the last days until last night, but I couldn't do it.

"No, you didn't think, Erik." I said quietly. "Now, you must go. Thank you for washing my hair. I assure you I'll be fine."

I didn't look up as he silently left.

That evening after I taken a nap in my dressing gown for a couple of hours, I rose finally and dressed. I decided to wear my dark green velvet skirts and black chiffon blouse over laid with a velvet fitted jacket of the same forest color that I'd found in the costume room discarded underneath a pile of old garments no longer worn. I'd taken the piece and stitched in roses along the lapels and the flare of the hem in black glistening thread. It would do nicely for a evening ensemble to wear to the performance, the dinner and the garden walk afterwards. A perfect, conservative piece for a spinster seamstress withscant funds. Very unlikely to draw attention. I coiled my hair up into an elaborate chignon and secured it with some pins I'd added black beads to for decoration.

Madame Giry had brought me some stage paint to cover the bruises. The steam of my bath water had caused the swelling to go down a great deal and I now only looked slightly off kilter. I carefully applied the paint until my skin was only slightly darker in shade over the damaged side of my face. It wouldn't be noticeable unless someone called attention to it. My headache had diminished some, though if I moved too fast, the room would spin.

Donning my spectacles, gathering my reticule, and fetching my cloak, I left the room to head for Box Four, where I was to meet the Chagnys and Meg for the performance.

They were already seated when I quietly closed the door to the box behind me. Meg turned, looking radiant and enticing, but tastefully so, in her new gown. Her smooth golden hair was piled high in an elaborate coiffure, a mint ribbon threaded throughout. I smiled at her and kissedthe cheek that she offered. She nearly returned the gesture on my bruised side, but then thought better of it and kissed my left instead.

"Meg, you look stunning, dear. I do think you made the right choice in that particular gown." I squeezed her gloved hand. She smiled brightly and fingered the stitched roses on my jacket.

"Did you do that?" she asked. "I remember that jacket, I wore it once."

I looked down at the black stitching.

"Yes, I'm afraid I didn't have anything more suitable to wear, so I improvised."

"Well, the result is lovely." I looked up at Christine's voice as she came toward me and took my hands, kissing my uninjured cheek. "I have some rather plain gowns and jackets that I do love, but they're so ordinary. Perhaps I can bring them to you and you can think something up?" She lifted her brows questioningly.

I nodded and agreed that she would have to bring them to the costume department one morning and let me have a go at them. I studiedthe gown she wore tonight. It certainly didn't lack for any embellishment. It was an off the shoulder piece, with small, elaborately ruched sleeves across her arms and a scooped neckline. In a rich hue of sapphire, it set off her dark curls piled high and her rose tinted cheeks perfectly, providing an elegant frame for her delicate white throat and shoulders. She wore a tasteful necklace of sapphires of the same dark color, and her hair was adorned by a strand of the same jewels. Her face was positively radiant: pregnancy suited her well.

"I do hope we find you feeling better, Mademoiselle Devereaux?" I turned to Raoul, who was turned out perfectly in black superfine, his cravat snowy white to match the satin brocade waistcoat he wore. His hair was tied back in black satin que.

He took my hand and bowed very correctly over it.

"Thank you, my lord, for your concern. I do feel much more the thing tonight. My head still spins a bit, but otherwise I am much improved."

He offered his arm and guided me to a seat in front, then lead Meg and Christine to sit on either side of me. He took my cloak and reticule and placed them upon a small round table in the corner of the box along with the other two ladies' belongings, then seated himself behind us. Christine was a very lucky young woman. To find a handsome, young nobleman who also conducted himself as a true gentleman ought to was very rare. So often in men of the higher class, one encountered much gloss and polish over an undesirable true character. Raoul de Chagny was not one of these.

We assumed our seats just in time. The auditorium fell dark and the curtains swept open, revealinga forest set against a moonlit sky.

Beside me Meg sighed happily and placed her hand through my arm.

"It is so very nice to watch for once and not perform. And I can pick on the others tommorow about how abominable their performance was." She snickered.

Christine turned to her and they began whispering about their days as dancers together, about which girl was the worst on her feet and which had only acheived their solos by prancing about privately for the managers and patrons.

I turned back to the stage and simply enjoyed the sights and sounds. The Opera had never been enjoyed upon the arm of Armand for his constant pandering and socializing. My parents had seldom gone and when they did, I was often towed after them to meet marriageable sons. This was truly the first time that I would be able to enjoy an opera in its entirety.

I found myself scooting to the edge of my seat and crossing my arms upon the edge of the box, resting my head upon them. Behind me I heard Raoul chuckle at me and I turned back with an embarassed smile for him. He grinned and gestured for me to turn back and enjoy. I laughed softly and turned once more to the performance.

Beside me I thought I heard a low growl of anger, but it must have been my imagination.

The perfomance ended and I shook myself out of my enchantment and returned to reality.

Meg and Christine were chatting happily and retrieving their cloaks and reticules. I stood, and stretched slightly, momentarily holding my temple as the box spun just a bit. Raoul came to me quickly and offered his arm. I took it with a grateful smile and we exited the box.

I heard the low angry sound once again, and knew it wasn't my imagination.

Throughtout dinner as we chatted and dined, I thought about that growl. Erik must have been hiding in the pillar beside of us, which I knew also connected to Box Five, which had been let out tonight. But had he been furious at Christine in the presence of Raoul and looking as heartrendingly lovely as she had, or at me for smiling and treating Raoul kindly and he I. Would he be waiting in my room tonight, once more the vengeful master come to punish his chosen slave?

But I found I could not dwell upon it long as my three companions claimed my attention and asked me about the chance of myself assuming the position of Madame Lefevere when she retired.

"We've discussed it," I said, placing my salad fork down. "Her hands are beginning to ail her from age and such tedious sewing, and she's mentioned several times that I might soon have to assume her duties for her."

"Would you be interested in such an elevation?" Christine asked me, taking a bite of her salad.

I nodded and picked my fork back up and speared a toasted crouton. "Very much so. I absolutely relish the work. Madame has given me a great deal of responsibility already. She all but handed Le Baudelaire to me except for the finaldesign and even thenshe only changed a slight number of things." I ate the crouton, enjoying the rich buttery garlic flavor. I hadn't had food this delicious since my marriage had ended. At first I'd declined their invitation for dinner, but Raoul had insisted, saying that Meg and I were taken care of.

"Has she discussed any plans forthe new costumes for Aida yet?" Meg asked, taking a sip of her wine.

"Yes, she insists that she wants me to have full license for Aida. The Opera hasn't performed Aida in quite some time, apparently, and needs all new costumes. Something very rich and colorful, I think. A lot of golds, burgundies, and greens." I had yet to start sketching but the ideas were already blooming to life in my mind.

The waiter appeared beside us and asked if we had finished with our first course of soup and salad. We agreed and he took our plates and bowls with a promise that our meals would be on the table shortly.

We were sitting in a private box of the restaurant, much to my relief. A great deal of the patrons at the tables were familiars of mine. I doubted any of them would recognize me dressed as I was with my hair so tightly bound and spectacles on my face, but never the less, being out of their sight was a comfort.

The waiter returned shortly andset a covered plate in front of me, then removed the silver cover with a flourish, revealing adish of steamed, flaky salmon, small red potatoes glistening with butter and spices and a pile of brightly colored sauteed asparagus. I leaned over and inhaled and nearly moaned at the wonderful smell.

Across the table Raoul chuckled at my obvious delight in the food. "Well, I'm glad to see your appetite has returned. I imagine you could not eat for quite a while after striking your head so hard."

"No, I couldn't. It was a chore trying to finish the juice and croissant that Madame Giry brought up to me this morning. This is the first real meal I've had all day." I eagerly cut into the fish, which fell apart at the first touch of my fork, and ate a small piece. This time, I wasn't able to restrain my eyes sliding closed and purring in ecstacy at the wonderful flavor of the impeccably cooked salmon.

Christine giggled and patted my hand. "My, you are a responsive woman, aren't you? I never believed it under that oh-so-conservative exterior."

I met her eyes and blushed.

"You've no idea."

The walk in the moonlit gardens of the Jardin de Tuilleres was chilly, but beautiful.

Christine and Raoul walked ahead of us, arm in arm, he in a long, elegant black coat with a white scarf about his shoulders, she in a fur lined velvet cloak in a deep shade of wine. I had the hood of my cloak pulled over my face as far as it would go, hiding the right side which had begun to show black and blue again as the paint faded and wore off. Meg walked beside of me, in a deep green cape that she'd borrowed from the costume department, a simple muff over her hands. I'd pulled on my black wool gloves over my mineto shield them from the cold.

Our breath plumed on the night air, forming clouds in front of our faces. The gardens lay silent about us, the mechanical swans swimming soundlessly on the black lake. I had been here many a time in the daylight, but never at night. The garden was beautiful in a completely different way with the moon gilding all the lawns, trees, and lake.

Raoul and Christine were chatting quietly, their voices low and murmuring back to us. He bent and kissed her cheek under her hood and she laughed and leaned into him.

I turned to Meg. "They're so very much in love, aren't they?" I whispered. Meg sighed wistfully.

"Oh, yes. I am so envious of her. She's such a lucky chit, having a vicomte as a husband. She has everything she wants." She stared longlingly at the rich velvet of Christine's cloak.

I studied her face in the moonlight. She seemed to be a great deal more enamored of the thought of riches over love. I felt I had to warn her, knowing what marrying for wealth usually guaranteed a woman, though certainly not in Christine's case.

"Wealth is not everything, Meg. It can't guarantee that you will be treated well or loved. Or that your spouse will be faithful to you. All it will guarantee is comfort and a well appointed roof over your head." I gazed out at the lake. "I would choose to be loved over being rich. At the end of day, gold cannot hold you, cannot whisper in your ear of longing, cannot comfort you and bring you relief." I fell silent, thinking of the sensation of Erik's arms around me that morning.

"Are you in love with someone, Genevieve?" Meg asked the question innocently enough, but I felt my breath catch in my throat.

I didn't speak for a while, our footsteps echoing quietly upon the cobblestones.

"I think that I am. But my feelings are not returned. Nor will they be." I blinked back the hot tears that threatened to fall. _Would it ever stop hurting?_

"Is he in love with another woman?"

"Yes, one infinitely more beautiful and more deserving of his affections than I am. He loves her with absolute devotion that I'll never overcome." I didn't dare try.

"I'm so sorry, Genevieve." She slipped her arm through mine. "I've never been in love so I do not pretend to know what you are going through. I imagine that loving someone and not having them love you back is very painful."

I sighed, nodding, watching my boots as they peeked from beneath my skirts every step.

"The poor Phantom of the Opera," she whispered.

My head whipped up, staring at her. _Did she know!_

She looked startled at my aghast expression. "Is something wrong?"

I shook my head, feeling a bit foolish. "No, I just haven't heard that name mentioned in quite a while."

"Christine told me how he had looked at her that night when she left with Raoul, after she gave him her engagement ring to remember her by. She cried so hard when she spoke about the hope that had come across his face when she returned to give it to him, before he knew she meant to leave him again. He loved her a great deal apparently. He cried, she said. I didn't think it possible to feel sorry for so wicked a man, but I did, when she told me that."

We were silent once more. I turned away for several long moments, willing the night air to dry the tears on my cheeks.

The evening ended pleasantly with a ride in Raoul's elegant barouche back to the Opera House to return Meg and I. We said our goodbyes on the steps and the dancer and I parted company to go to our seperate wings.

I unlocked my room and slipped quietly inside. The room was in utter darkness and was freezing. I sighed and made my way to my dresser to turn up my small lamp.

I was grabbed harshly and spun around, slamming into a solid body. I gasped and raised my hands to defend myself, but they were grasped tightly by gloved hands and I was pushed into the wall, my head thumping slightly.

I heard the distinctive sound of palms slapping the wall on either side of my head. The smell of spice and candlesmoke wreathed my senses.

"Did you enjoy your little _evening_, my dear?"

I had been correct. He was waiting for me.


	30. Chapter Twenty-Nine

**Chapter 29**

His voice was pure ice, cold and biting.

After recovering from my shock and the dizziness my head hitting the wall had caused, I straightened and allowed my eyes to adjust to the darkness. I could just make out the white of his mask in the gloom, but nothing else.

"I enjoyed my evening very well, thank you," I enunciated, making my voice as cold as his. I was in no mood for his arrogant side that seemed to once again be coming to the fore. After the events of last night upon the stage, and my finally finding the strength to resist him afterward in my bed and this morning when he'd tried to hold me, I was loathe to tremble in fear of him as I once had, even though I knew that to treat him with anything less than wary respect was pure foolishness.

"You certainly seemed to enjoy the attentions of that _boy_," he hissed, drawing near to my face.

The fury in his voice was palpable.

"That _boy_, as you call him, was simply being polite. He's a perfect gentleman, unlike _some_ men I have the misfortune of being acquainted with!" I placed my hands upon his chest and shoved, but he didn't budge, only stepped closer until I was pressed completely against the wall. A small_ frisson_ of fear worked its way down my spine; he hated Raoul with a passion it seemed, and perhaps it had been foolish to allow the younger man to assist me during the evening and chat so amiably to him. I quelled my reaction though. I had the perfect right to be polite and to enjoy the company of a pleasant gentleman.

"Oh, _no_, my dear! You are perfectly right! _I_ am no gentleman! I have no right to claim such a title, do I? Monsters have no claim to the social graces!" He whirled away from me suddenly, breathing harshly, his cloak brushing my skirts as he turned. I had no idea where he had gone in the absolute darkness until my lamp flared to life on my dresser, bathing the room in low, golden light.

He stood by the dresser, his eyes riveted on me. I couldn't keep my eyes from devouring the sight of him in the dark gold waistcoat, black cravat, tail coat, and the pale gold lined black velvet cloak, his hair once again smoothed back, dark and gleaming, the white of his mask throwing the beautiful uncovered side of his face into smooth, chiseled lines, his brow and sideburns dark against his face. His eyes were more green than gold in the light, his mouth set in a hard smirk.

He seemed to fill the small room with his dark presence, making everything else seem colorless and lifeless compared to him.

I remained against the wall, my hood fallen back, studying him quietly, unable to slow the beat of my heart. Despite everything, I loved him still. Why, after Armand, could my heart have simply remained a block of stone? Why had this man come along, chosen me for his purposes, and made me want and need again, in vain, as I always had?

Finally I spoke, my voice not as steady as I would have liked it to be.

"You are no monster, Erik, though there are times you do act like one." I stepped away from the wall, removing my cloak and draping it over a chair. I turned to the mirror and studied my face. The swelling had begun to return somewhat with the late hour, and the paint had worn completely off, leaving my skin marred again.

He was beside me in an instant, cupping my face gently and turning my right side to him. He touched my temple lightly, judging the swelling. I winced at his touch, the place had grown quite tender again. He removed his gloves, slipping them into his cloak, and then turned me to him again, pressing the bruises gently with his fingertips.

"You need a warm compress against this," he whispered, touching my right eye which was still a bit inflamed. He drew nearer to me, looking down at me with an unfathomable expression. He lifted my chin with his fingers, forcing me to look him in the eyes. "I didn't think when I acted last night, Genevieve. All I could see was my rage at your words. I never thought that I might actually harm you. All I could think of was..."

"Christine," I finished for him, moving away from him, unbuttoning my jacket, keeping my eyes lowered.

He was still by the mirror, not moving. When he spoke, his voice was low and dangerous once again.

"Do not speak to me of Christine."

I whirled to face him. "It must be spoken of, Erik! Surely you can see that she is happy! She loves her husband, _she's having his child_, and they are overjoyed!" I ripped my jacket off of my shoulders and threw it upon the bed. I was grabbed by the arms and turned to face him, his eyes blazing.

"_At my expense_!" he roared. "They would not have that _precious_ joy if it wasn't for me! I could have had her, kept her, but I let her go." His voice lowered, turning ragged with pain. "I let her go, when I could have kept her with me, my wife and lover." He shook me as if to make me understand.

"Not willingly, though, Erik! Surely that would not have been what you would want, to have to force her every night! You are not worthy of such an act, Erik." I tried to pull out of his grasp, but he held me with iron force.

"You know nothing of me," he raged behind his gritted teeth. "What I would do to possess her. To see her tonight, looking so exquisite, on the arm of that _puppy_! And you! Simpering and blushing like a schoolgirl! Was it that child that you spoke of to Meg? Have you fallen in love with the little Vicomte?"

"I was _not_ simpering! I do not _simper_!" I spat at him, ripping my arms finally out of his grasp and turning to face him, poking him in the chest. " And _no!_ He was not the one I spoke of! The one I spoke ofisn't interested in hearing of my love, and I will not share his identity with you! And as for Raoul, he was treating me like a lady! And that's something that no one else seems capable of doing, and I _enjoyed_ it!" I poked him hard again, watching suprise cross his features that I would defy him so. "All I ever receive is orders, demands, intimidation, an utter lack of respect for my person!"

He lunged at me, flinging my hand away from his chest and throwing me onto the bed. I shrieked in fury and came up, trying to land a blow against his face, but he pinned my hands above my head and covered me with his body, quelling my frantic movements with the shock of his weight on me.

"You see!" I raged up at him, struggling to free myself of him. "_This_ is how I am treated! You cannot even seem to conduct yourself in a decent manner!"

"Last night I tried to hold and comfort you after you were injured..." he spat. My mouth flew open in outrage at his audacity.

"After dropping a backdrop upon me!"

"This morning, I washed your hair when you would have had difficulty..."

"After coming into my room while I was _naked_, and not even alerting my of your presence! How long were you there!"

"Forgive me, _my dear_! My despicable person has never been allowed the sight of an undressed woman before you came here, and _why,_ even after knowing that I move freely about this theatre, would you continue to bathe and dress without a screen!" His teeth were bared at me, every movement of his chest rising and falling harshly felt against my own.

"I shouldn't have to! This is _my_ room! But _you_ seem to forget that!" I screamed up into his face, my temper at last uncontainable in his presence.

"And _you_ forget that you are in debt to me! I control your fate here, Genevieve! Do _not_ forget that!"

Beneath him I stilled, staring up at him. So, nothing had changed. The moments of quiet intimacy, the remorse he'd held me with last night and this morning were for naught. He still meant to give my whereabouts to Armand if I disobeyed him. _Why did I love such a man!_

I closed my eyes over the hot tears that threatened, pressing my lips tightly together to stop the tremblling.

Above me, his harsh breathing had slowed. He made a low, angry sound in his throat and his hands released my wrists and cupped my face, once again gentle. He lowered his forehead to mine.

"Please, don't cry Genn. Please." He softly kissed my bruised cheek. I shook my head, resisting the mad impulse to tilt my head and meet his lips instead.

"Get off of me, please," I whispered, keeping my eyes closed.

He was still, then slowly removed his person from mine and walked slowly toward the mirror.

On the bed, I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling.

"You could conduct yourself like a gentleman if you wanted, Erik. You can be gentle and considerate when you choose to be. Why you cannot act as such at all times, I know not the reason." I slowly sat up, brushing a curl that had come loose during our struggling behind my ear.

He stood perfectly still, a dark, silent statue. His eyes, which were suddenly tortured were piercing mine in the mirror.

"You want to know the reason." He said slowly, his voice low and dangerous. "Then you shall. Look and see why I cannot be your perfect gentleman!"

He turned and flung the mask at my feet.


	31. Chapter Thirty

**Chapter 30**

I stared at the mask, lying so innocently at my feet, it's vacant eye seeming to stare up at me. Erik was across the room, breathing harshly, waiting for me to look at him.

I slowly raised my eyes to his.

I felt the blood drain from my face. Not in fright, though. The visage staring at me so coldly, with so much condemnation did not frighten me. But I _was_ in shock. _It was impossible_.

Impossible to believe that a man could posess a face, one half that of an angel, so sensually beautiful it stole one's breath, one half that of something I'd never expected to see out of the grave.

From midway up his forehead and back was normal, the skin smooth, lightly golden as the rest of his face. From his lower cheek to his jawline was also the unmarred flesh and perfectly chiseled bone. But in between those areas and into his temple, into the hair which surely must be a partial wig was something so different, so _cruelly_ different that it was hard to even assimiliate the thoughts in which to describe it.

The skin was nearly transparent, so thin that the blue, pulsing veins were clearly visible along his skull, which was also exposed under the parchment like tissue. His eye was sunk back, deep in the socket, which was defined harshly. His right cheek was higher than the left, a ridge that ran from his temple to his nose, throwing the symmetry of his face completely off balance. And his _nose_, Dear God. The right side of his nose was non-existent, a gaping black cavity. The cleft and lips below it were so normal, _so right_, that it was nearly impossible to believe that they belonged to the same man. His temple was ridged, the bone showing underneath the vein riddled skin. The hair that grew from his left side and the hair combed back from his right were the same shade, a deep brown with chestnut highlights, but it was clear that the right side was a wig. Hair would not naturally grow from that unnatural skin.

The right side of his face was that of dead man's, long gone from this earth, six feet beneath the ground.

I had seen deformities before, everyone has. But I had grown up in a pampered circle of noble society. My family did not frequent traveling fairs or sideshows. Oddity muesuems were an entertainment that had been beneath my birth. My cosseted life thus far, until this moment, had not prepared me for the reality that such a person could exist as the man that stood before me. I felt hot tears burn the backs of my eyes and I knew my mouth had begun to tremble. _What kind of life had this man known? What kind of indignites had he had to suffer because of this burden he carried on the most visible part of his body?_

His eyes were still staring into mine, so many emotions in their depths. Anger, hatred, sorrow, and fear. The fear made me realize that I was simply sitting there on the bed, not moving, not even blinking. I knew that my tears were glistening. God knows what he thought of them.

I swallowed and straightened, looking down at my hands, taking a moment to compose myself before facing his haunted eyes again. I remembered the last words he had spoken before he had flung the mask at me.

I raised my head and looked directly into his eyes, my tears now under control.

"Erik, your face should not determine how you behave and treat others. That's only a convenient crutch on which to rely."

He stared at me, his mouth literally falling open with shock.

For several long moments he said nothing. Then he was in front of me in an instant, dragging me up by my arms and hauling my face to his, my nose mere inches from his own.

"_This face_," he rasped harshly, "determines _everything _for me. It always has and it always will! I can do _nothing_ without the influence of this grotesque abomination! I cannot behave like a normal man, because I am _not_ a normal man! _I_ haven't the rights of a man! Therefore, _I _am not bound by the laws that govern a man!" His hands were gripping my arms fiercely, sinking into the muscle and undoubtedly bruising my flesh, but I ignored the pain and met him head on.

"You _are _a man, Erik! You _have_ the rights of any man! You _can _behave like a normal man!"

I raged up at him, baring my own teeth for once with fury.

His eyes narrowed to glinting slivers of gold. "_Really?_ We'll see about that!" And he slammed his mouth onto mine.

I froze in shock, my mouth opening on a gasp, and he ruthlessly took advantage, his tongue surging deeply and forcefully into my mouth, ravishing my senses so completely that I only stood there, his arms coming around me with bruising strength, crushing my body tightly to his. He explored my mouth with devastating thoroughness, breathing harshly through his nose against my cheek as he dug one hand deep in my hair, sending pins flying, angling my head to gain better access.

I finally broke free of my stupor, throwing all rationality to the wind, and freeing my arms from his, wrapping them tight about his neck, one hand sinking into his soft hair, the other palming his right cheek, my fingers encountering the misshaped bone and not caring. He groaned harshly, tugged at my chignon until it pulled free of its moorings and fell down my back and over his hands. I felt him gather the mass up and sink his fingers through it. I cried out softly, my moan swallowed by his mouth, as he pulled me tighter, his long hands roving over my back and through my hair.

He never gentled his mouth, but pushed me on tirelessly, thrusting his tongue rhymthically, groaning every time I met him with my lips. I realized vaguely through the heat fogging my brain that if he made a move to take me right now, I was not at all sure if I would be able to resist. I knew that this wasn't love, at least on his side, but pure, long supressed, physical desire. I had merely been the first woman who had challenged him to act on his natural urges, unwittingly though. But in this moment, wrapped in his arms with his mouth moving so desperately on mine, did I even care?

When I felt the tug at the laces of my skirts, I knew that this was going to come to a head very quickly. His fingers were already making fast work of undoing the velvet strings, and if I didn't stop this now, would he be able to stop later? I had no experience of a man's temperance and patience with a woman in physical matters.

In a moment his hands were inside the waist of my skirt, tugging my blouse free. The fingers of his right hand came up to the buttons at my collarbone and impatiently flicked one open.

"Genevieve? Are you there?" Someone knocked on the door lightly. "It's Christine. You left your reticule in the carriage."

Erik and I were apart in an instant, staring aghast at one another. The door knob began to turn.

I realized I had forgotten to snib the lock.


	32. Chapter Thirty-One

**Chapter 31**

My eyes widened as the door slowly began to inch open. In just mere seconds, Christine would see Erik and I standing there, him unmasked and near panting, me with my skirts gaping in the back and my blouse in the beginning stages of being unbuttoned. And she would know that her Opera Ghost still lived amongst the inhabitants of the theatre and that I had knowledge of his existence here. I did not know Christine well enough to not believe that she might scream the Opera down upon us. Erik would be executed and I would be thrown in the Bastille for aiding a criminal.

But the reason that compelled me more than any other was that I did not want her to see Erik unmasked and as vulnerable as he looked right now. He was staring at the doorknob with near horror, his head slowly shaking back and forth, inching away from the door like a wounded animal.

I acted as quickly as I could.

"One moment!" I cried. Hurrying toward Erik and turning my back to him, I frantically gestured toward my laces he'd just undone. "I was undressing! I'm sorry! I'll be right there!"

Behind me, he made fast work of my laces, giving a final jerk, securing them in place. I closed the top button of my blouse quickly and pulled the remaining pins out of my hair, which was tumbling haphazardly down my back, and set them upon my vanity, then bent to scoop the others off the floor and place them upon the tabletop as well. I straightened to see Erik disappearing inside my closet; he must have realized that she might recognize the near silent but very memorable sound of the mirror sliding open.

I whirled toward the mirror and gave myself a quick glance. My clothing was righted, but my hair was loose and falling to my waist, but there was no help for it; it would take far too long to put back up. My lips were reddened and swollen and my face was flushed but hopefully she would not take much notice in the low light of the room. I took a deep, shuddering breath and hurried toward the door. I would have time later in which to decide if I was relieved or disappointed that we had been interrupted in the midst of the passion that had fogged my brain.

"I'm so terribly sorry, Madame de Chagny!" I opened the door to my room and gave a helpless gesture. She gave me a brilliant smile, her hood pushed back from her face.

"May I come in, Mademoiselle Devereaux? If it's not too imposing?" She raised her brows, giving another smile that could light up a room. I barely kept my eyes from widening. _Erik, you stay in that closet!_

"Certainly." I turned and left the door open, Christine following me into the room. The white half mask lay beside the bed. _Oh, bloody hell!_ I turned quickly, making my skirts flare wide, covering the small piece of porcelein within their circle and settling myself over it, the velvet hem completely obscuring it from sight.

Christine stepped to the side and looked about the small room, her eyes turning wistful. When she caught sight of the mirror she stopped and gazed at it for a long moment. Behind her I twisted the fabric of my skirts rhythmically in my hands, a nervous gesture I'd tried to quell for years. I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Erik stood at the door to the closet, gazing through the slight crack, staring at the beautiful young woman who was walking slowly towards the mirror, lifting her hand, and hesitantingly touching its surface. This room had not been hers of course, but the mirror was like many I had seen throughout the private chambers of the Opera. I could only imagine all the memories that whirled through her head.

She finally turned to me and smiled, reaching into her own cloak and retrieving the small black beaded reticule. She came toward me and placed it in my hands. With a sigh, she turned back to the mirror and sat upon the bed, clasping her hands in her lap. I inwardly cursed and sat as gracefully as I could, keeping my skirts over the mask.

Beside me, smiled gently at the mirror. "I suppose you've heard of the Phantom of the Opera?" she asked quietly.

I swallowed, and clenched my hands in my lap, my eyes straying to the closet, which was silent.

"Yes, Meg and others have told me a great deal. But please, don't feel as if you have to explain your situation. I know how painful the memories must be for you," _and others_, but I didn't finish the thought. I was painfully aware of Erik, standing in the closet, more exposed and vulnerable than I could ever imagine anyone being.

"They are not all painful," she said softly. "There are many wonderful ones, many of those in _his_ company. Though he brought me a great deal of sorrow, he also brought music into my life, for which I can never repay him. I love Raoul, more than anything, and I love him more each day that I am his wife. And we have so much to look forward to." She smiled to herself, her hands straying to her still flat abdomen. "But I do miss my teacher. I did not love him, not as he needed me to, not as he hungered for me to, but I did care for him." She seemed far away in her thoughts, her eyes downcast. "I do hope that he finds love," she whispered.

I took a deep shuddering breath and her head snapped up. "Oh, Genevieve, I'm sorry, you must be so tired from your fright last night and here I am prattling on." She stood and held her gloved hands out to me.

I carefully stood as well, keeping my skirts arranged over the mask. "It's quite alright, Madame. I do not mind that you feel you can confide in me."

She smiled up at me, looking slightly embarassed. "I really have no one to talk to about such things. Raoul, though I love him dearly, does not understand. And I'm afraid his acquaintances' wives would be quite shocked to hear me discuss my past in so free a manner. I feel that you are someone I could trust. You seem so serious and experienced with the world. Are you sure that I do not know you outside of the Opera?" she looked up at me curiously.

I gave a short laugh, trying to cover my nervousness. "I'm quite sure, Madame."

She gave a helpless gesture and turned toward the door. I stood awkwardly in the same spot, not wanting to reveal the mask beneath my skirts.

She gave me an odd look, but took her leave of me smiling.

As the door shut, my shoulders fell and my breath whooshed out of my body. I clutched my stomach, which was rolling with nerves and sank down upon the bed, my hands shaking horribly. _Thank God that was over!_

The door to the closet slowly opened and Erik stepped out, looking shaken, his hand covering the right side of his face. His hair was in disarray, falling in his eyes and he moved, not with the stunning elegance that usually invested his tall frame, but stiffly and slowly. He looked much older than I knew him to be.

I stood and walked slowly to him. He turned and looked at me, his visible eye gleaming with unshed tears. The lost, hurt expression on his face made my heart constrict in my chest, and I could barely swallow over the lump in my throat. He looked away from me, and stared at the floor. His shoulders were shaking slightly.

When I stood before him, I reached up and gently removed his hand from his face. He turned away, but I silently cupped his chin and turned him back to me. With my other hand I gently traced the disfigured contours of his near exposed bones. His eyes slid shut, and a tear slowly made its way down the parchment like skin.

"Christine," he whispered brokenly.

Even though my own heart felt like it had been ripped out of my chest, I brought his head down to my shoulder, one hand on the back of his neck the other around his back and I simply held him as he sobbed into my neck.

Our heated, sudden passion earlier was forgotten, a rash mistake made in the face of his anger over my complacent reaction to his face. Those moments might as well never have happened. As he cried, he whispered her name, over and over. Tears of my own coursed down my cheeks against his hair, but I didn't make a sound. He didn't love me, but he did need me in this moment. Someone to hold him, as no one had ever held him before. Someone to let him cry, someone to rest his burdens upon for the first time.

Later, as I lay in my small bed, still in my evening clothes, Erik beside me with his arms about my waist and his unmasked face pressed to my shoulder, his sobs finally spent, his breathing deep with sleep, his cloak spread out over us, my hand resting on the delicate skin of his right cheek, I knew that this would have to be enough for me.

Tonight I had learned I couldn't expect more.


	33. Chapter Thirty-Two

**Chapter 32**

I slowly woke, aware instantly that I was not in my home by the lake. The bed beneath me was hard, unlike my luxuriously appointed pewter swan bed. The pillow underneath my left cheek was simple linen, soft but low quality. The air about me felt closed in, a small room and I instantly felt the familiar choking sensation of being caged in. But when I took a deep breath, attempting to calm myself, I realized that I had never felt warmer in my cold life.

There were bars about my body, one across my back, the other curving about my right shoulder and resting upon my bare cheek, but though they held me firmly, they were soft and supple, and as I shifted, so did they. My face was buried in warm, sweet smelling silk, vanilla.

Then I remembered the previous night, how my heart had been a lead weight in my chest, how I'd sobbed like a child, like I had not done since Christine had left me.

_Christine_.

I had seen her last night. The pain had been intense. Then I'd cried and someone had held me onto their shoulder, then led me to the bed and pulled me close and let me mourn, their arms holding me gently, in a way I'd never been touched or held before.

_Genevieve_.

I opened my eyes. The room was lit only by a low lamp on the dresser by the bed.

I was covered in my own cloak, the satin lined wings over both I and the woman sleeping beside of me. My _unmasked_ face was underneath her hand, her fingers curled gently about my ear. My cheek was nestled between her soft throat and shoulder, her creamy fragrance rising from her warm skin. She was curled about me, one of her long legs slightly intwined with mine under her velvet skirts and my cloak. I remembered distinctly awaking once before in her arms, but I had been holding her, not the other way around. This was, I realized dazedly, my first time ever being held by a woman.

I slowly rose upon one elbow, catching her hand gently upon my face and holding it to my chest as I looked down at her in the soft glow of the lamp.

Her face was in soft repose, sleeping soundly. Her lashes lay feathered out over her lightly freckled cheeks, dark against the pale skin. Her lips were slightly parted, a warm apricot color, and I could barely hear the soft exhale of her breathing as her chest rose and fell. Her hair, which was curled riotously about her face was spread out on the pillow and down her back, several long pieces wrapped about her arm. It's dark color was shot through with tawny gold highlights, striking against the glossy sable background.

I simply studied her for the first time, looking beyond the simple aspects of her appearance to each indiviual nuance of her face and form.

She was not beautiful, not in any real sense of what the word currently meant. But she possesed an intelligent attraction, a simple, quiet loveliness that was difficult to see at first glance, but became more apparent upon closer examination. I'd never actually noticed until now.

Last night, when I had rashly thrown my mask at her, _wanting_ to see her fear, _wanting_ to see her horror, if only to assure myself she truly felt nothing for me beyond fascination and simply to shock her always ready mouth into silence, I had been suprised when she'd simply paled, composed herself then fired at me that my face was no excuse for my behavior. Out of all the things she could have done or screamed, that was the most unexpected. No fear had crossed her face, no disgust or contempt. For a brief moment..._compassion?_...had flared in her eyes, then receded.

Her reaction had enraged me. How dare she react so calmly and cooly to the monstrosity that I'd bared to her! How dare she fling at me that I was a normal man, with the normal rights of a man! The kiss had been merely to prove to her that I _did not_ have the rights of a normal man. When she shoved me away, ill with disgust that such a creature as I had kissed her, she would know that she had lied.

But once I'd tasted her, I couldn't stop, even as she stood frozen and slack, scared witless by my assault. The sweet flavor of wine and her natural warm taste had shook me to the core, driving me nearly mad with desire. But then she'd wrapped her arms about me, one hand at the back of my head, one upon my deformed cheek and returned the kiss, moaning softly into my mouth and responding so avidly that I hadn't been able to control my long supressed needs. I'd begun tugging at her clothes, eager to get her bare and under me, where it would be too late to resist and I could finally know what it was to _know_ a woman.

Christine's interruption at the door had not come quick enough, as much as my demons roared in protest. If I had gotten her unclothed, nothing would have stopped me until I was one with her. We'd sprang apart, and in that moment, her eyes had been as dark and hot as I knew mine were. _She had wanted it as badly as I._

The frantic moments of resecuring her laces and stowing myself in the closet had given me time to think. Was it this woman who I had just come close to taking or the woman at the door, interrupting us, who I really wanted? It was unsettling to know that I did not know the answer.

But once I'd seen my angel, the lily white of her delectable shoulders and throat, the fragile, sweet curves of her face, her hair piled up, glistening curl upon curl, her form displayed temptingly in the well cut gown, the mounds of her breasts rising above the bodice, all thoughts of the older woman so carefully concealing my mask under her skirts had fled. All I saw was Christine, my eyes devouring her, stripping that gown off mentally, imagining taking her hair down, and letting me love her instead of that boy who had her everynight.

She'd spoken to Genevieve of me. Her eyes had turned wistful as she admitted she missed me, giving me hope. Which had quickly been dashed when she'd admitted that she had never loved me, but only cared for me. Her hands had strayed to her abdomen where her and _his_ child grew inside her. Her face lighting with so much joy that I'd had turn away as she spoke of Raoul and how much she loved him more each day. The pain, intense and brutal, had nearly made me cry out in the darkness of the closet. _If I only I could be a normal man, Christine! Able to love you as that boy does. A whole man instead this grotesque animal who could only hope to seduce you through song and twist your innocence. _

She'd taken her leave of Genevieve, smiling so beautifully I'd silently moaned, wanting her so fiercely until my body throbbed in pain.

When I'd finally stepped out of the closet, feeling like an old man, reeling from a hurt I didn't know how to handle, Genevieve had came to me. She'd removed my hand covering the right side of my face in shame, and she'd touched my twisted bones, my macabre skin, gently, tenderly. I'd felt humiliated as I'd begun to cry, but she'd drew me to her, supporting my body with her much smaller one, offering her shoulder. I'd cried into her neck, my arms tight about her. And she hadn't shied away from my bare cheek against her skin, but held me, for the first time.

And I'd awoken, still in her arms. She'd held me against her all night as I'd slept, my bare disfigured flesh under palm and against her soft, warm skin. She'd slept trustingly beside of me, her limbs gently entwined with mine, _having seen my face._

I stared down at her, memorizing her features so soft in sleep. She was still, oblivious to my assesing her quietly.

I had hurt her time after time, used her, manipulated her for my own purposes. I'd actually entertained the idea of blackmailing her into leading Christine to me. But watching my former pupil last night, seeing the happiness on her face as she'd held her stomach, cherishing the child inside of her had made me realize that having Christine and having her hate me for all eternity was a humiliation I couldn't stomach. I remembered the look that had came over her face that night a year ago. I'd pointed to my face, mocking her with the promise that I was her fate, an eternity of this...monster before her eyes. The thought of waking up every morning and seeing that horror pass over her features each time she opened her eyes sickened me.

The quiet ticking of the clock on the nightstand behind me drew my attention. I turned and frowned at the time. It was only two in the morning. I had not been asleep as long as I believed I had. I looked back down at Genevieve curled on the bed, her back pressed to the wall. In the low lamplight, I could see the dark circles underneath her eyes, the delicate skin bruised with lack of sleep, her right eye against the pillow slightly swollen with her fall Saturday night on the stage. An injury brought on by my hand.

She would not be expected to appear in the costume room later. I had listened to her and Antoinette's conversation yesterday morning concerning the fact that she would not be coming back to her duties until tommorow morning. No one would expect her.

I felt old and worn, much older than my forty years, after my revelations last night in the closet, and I wanted to sleep longer, in her warm, comforting presence, but my back and long limbs were aching from the small bed.

I couldn't ignore the fact that I had the insane desire to see her upon my pewter swan bed, her dark hair and pale freckled cheeks against the wine colored velvets. If I had her back to this little room by the afternoon, no one would miss her. And I did not want to finish this night alone or my tortuous thoughts of Christine might return.

I sat up and stood, leaving my cloak draped across her form. Without giving myself a chance to change my mind, I donned the mask that lay upon the floor, and scooped her up in my arms, arranging her gently against my chest so as not to wake her. She murmured once, then settled against me. I carried her to the mirror, nudged the mechanism, and carried her through.

I sang to her as I carried her down the corridors, a soft Italian wedding song, a low soothing melody. She continued to sleep, her breathing deep and even. As I laid her upon the cushions in the boat docked in the fifth cellar and began slowly poling the gondola through the subterranean lake, I reflected on what I knew of her.

She was divorced from the Comte de Bouvieux, a move that I did not understand. I'd watched Armand de Bouvieux carefully in his interactions in Paris society. He was a powerful, wealthy man with a excessive amount of money and influence. He was well respected by his peers and fellow parties in the government. I had noticed with scorn that he was flawlessly featured, a man that women would consider very fine of form and face, tall and heavily muscled, but in possesion of an urbane sophistication. He had several mistresses, I'd dryly noted, all beauties of the highest caliber, and he lavished them with everything they blinked their pretty eyes at . If he treated his lovers with such largesse, how much better would he treat his wife? Surely Genevieve had had all she desired.

The several mistresses could have pushed her into such a drastic action, but it was my understanding that most noblewomen were very accepting of their husband's seeking pleasure outside of the marriage bed, as it was expected.

It was much more likely that she had had a lover and desired to have a life with him instead, divorced her husband and then was jilted by her paramour. But all that I knew of my little seamstress so far did not make that seem a likely possibility. She seemed envious of the relationship between Christine and the boy and their love. But perhaps she was missing her lover. I remembered her conversation only hours ago with Meg, when she'd admitted that she was in love with someone, but he did not return her feelings. Had she given up wealth and position merely to rut with a man? It was no wonder that her husband wished to find her and throttle her.

But when I looked at her, lying so innocently asleep in the gondola, it was difficult to believe she was an unfaithful, deceitful woman.

As my porticullus, the entrance to my home, rose and allowed me to pole the boat to the edge where the stone cavern rose above the waters, I cast the divorce and her adultery out of my mind. All that mattered now was getting her upon my bed and sinking into her embrace again to sleep.

I set the pole against the wall silently and bent, picking her up gently and settling her against me. She only sighed and then fell still once more.

I carried her past the my sketching desk, past the organ, and up the carved out stairs to my bedroom.

The carved pewter swan bed sat waiting, piled with lush, sensual velvets. I couldn't help but remember another night, so long ago it seemed, when I laid another woman upon this bed, but I wouldn't have dared join her. Tonight I would share my bed for the first time.

I laid her carefully among the pillows and blankets. She shifted, murmuring quietly and put an arm about her waist, her face contorting slightly for one moment. _Her corset_. The stiff whalebone would be digging painfully into her flesh in such a position. In her small bed she had laid in one position, her back against the wall, making room for myself. Now she could lay on her back, and the garment was twisted slightly under her blouse. I wanted her to sleep comfortably so she wouldn't wake and become frightened at her surroundings.

I removed the cloak and tossed it over a chair. I stripped off the tailcoat and unwound my cravat from around my neck and placed both in the chair, then unbuttoned and removed my waistcoat. My shirt hung loose and comfortably open, and I could move over her easily, placing one knee on the bed and I carefully unbuttoned her blouse to her waist, then gently pulled it loose of her skirts and undid the rest of the small black beads. I rolled her slowly onto her side. Perhaps it was fortunate she had not slept well the night before; she remained asleep, her breathing deep and even. I lightly unlaced her voluminous skirts until the back was gaping, then slowly slid them off of her, trying my best to ignore the shape of her long legs beneath the chemise that clung to her form. I tossed the dark green velvets upon the floor and turned back, leaning over her.. Lifting her upper body slightly off the bed, I slid the blouse slowly off her shoulders and bare arms until I could send it the way of the skirts. I swallowed painfully, keep my eyes studiously away from the upper swells of her small breasts revealed by the low cut chemise and the support of the stiff corset. Finally I straddled her, my thighs on either side of hers, and began carefully unhooking her corset. The stiff garment was clasped from the front: only ladies with maids wore the tradition corsets that laced up the back.

Each eye and hook that came loose revealed more and more of her body covered by the clingy material of the chemise. She was not as voluptuous or delicately boned as Christine, but each inch of supple flesh and small but gentle curves released by the strangle hold of the corset made my breathing grow harsh and the muscles of my stomach clench into stone.

Finally I had the garment completely removed and I tossed the damned thing behind me. I took a moment to sit back on my ankles and study her.

She sighed in relief and sunk deeper into the covers, a soft smile crossing her face. I found myself becoming attached to the slight lines at the corners of her eyes, evidence of her thirty years of life. My eyes slowly traveled her length. She was tall, still several inches below my own three inches above six feet, but much longer than many women I'd seen. But she moved with grace, no doubt from her breeding. She was slim, with sleek curves rather than generous ones. Her body was not the type that drew the eye of a man, but when a man's eye was finally fixed on her, her long lines were pleasing to look at.

I finally stood once more and removed my boots, hesitating for a moment, but removed my mask, untucked my shirt and carefully crawled onto the bed by her side. I reached for the coverelet at the edge of the bed and drew it up over both her and I. She sighed and snuggled deeper into the pillows, but when I reached for her, holding her to me with my right arm about her hips and my hand resting between her shoulder blades and my other going under her head and about her neck, finally curving about her shoulder, she shifted into me, her right hand coming up to my chest and resting there, her left arm curling against her self, her fingers skating my jaw and setting against my cheek. She twined her legs with mine under the covers and her shoulder rose and fell in a contented sigh.

"Erik," she whispered, her lips moving against my throat and then stilling, her body once more growing heavy with sleep.

I closed my eyes, my chin resting on her head, and squeezed her gently to me. I dared place a kiss on her forehead, and she murmured my name once more, making my heart constrict tightly.

I simply laid awake for a while, breathing in her fragrance, basking in the warm, trusting weight of her body against my own, reliving the sound of my name whispered on her lips as she she had snuggled into me.

Then finally, I let myself slide into sleep.

I dreamed of laying just like this, but rocking gently into her, and hearing her shivering whisper of my name as I loved her.


	34. Chapter Thirty-Three

**Chapter 33**

I sighed happily as I began to wake. The constant headache I'd had at my temple since my fall upon the stage Saturday night was finally gone, leaving only contentment in its place. I felt warm and relaxed like the cat who'd just ate the cream. I stretched my arms over my head and gave a large yawn, then rolled onto my other side, snuggling into the warmth of the velvet pillows and the thick coverlet wrapped about me.

My bed was covered with linen, not velvet.

My eyes snapped open and I looked about me, frozen in my spot deep in the soft bed.

I was _not_ in my room. That was certain.

Around me hung black gossamer curtains, twinkling back softly in the glow of several candles that I could see flickering outside of the small open chamber. I looked up and gazed into the eyes of a carved swan, pewter perhaps. I blinked up at the odd bird for a moment before sitting up slightly, pulling the coverlet with me. I was on the left side of the bed and as I peered through the curtains into the chamber beyond, I saw hundreds of lights, candles, flickering softly.

I turned looking straight ahead, feeling very out of touch with reality as I noticed that light seemed to be reflecting off a ..._lake?_ Or a pond of some kind? Water shushed softly beyond the curtains, a soothing sound that did absolutely nothing to soothe _me._ _Where in God's name was I?_

As I felt the velvet shift against my bare arms, I looked down in shock. I wore only my chemise, the hem hiked up to my thighs, from turning throughout the night obviously. I pulled one narrow sleeve back onto my shoulder. _Where were my clothes?_ When I had fallen asleep finally in my small bed, I had still been wearing my velvet skirts and my blouse, Erik lying beside of me in my arms.

_Erik._

I twisted onto my side. The other side of the bed was empty, but sunken in, as if someone had only just rose. It was warm to the touch. I looked about the room, what I could see beyond the curtains; there was no one to be seen.

The sound of an organ jolted me out of my wondering stupor. It was only a short depression of keys and rather soft, as if being played low out of consideration for me.

I tossed my legs over the side and stood, allowing the chemise to settle once more to my ankles. My skirts, blouse, and corset lay upon the floor by the bed. If it had been only a year ago, the sight would have been a normal one upon my bedchamber floor from a encounter with Armand demanding his husbandly rights, and I would have had fearsome memoires of the night, but with Erik, and his occasional gentle ways, I knew this wasn't the case. More than likely he wanted to make me comfortable while I slept. But all the same, I felt my face flush at the thought of him undressing me while I lay unresisting. I waited for the fear to come, the fear that I had let myself be vulnerable and defenseless, but I waited in vain. The old fear never rose. Letting myself muse on that, I picked up a velvet throw at the end of the bed and draped it across my shoulders and about me, then ducked beneath the curtains into the chamber beyond. I was getting a bit angry that he had simply removed me from my room without a "by your leave." I took a couple of steps then raised my head.

I stopped and stared, hardly believing my eyes.

It was one massive room, a cavern cut into the stone of the deepest cellars, where Madame Giry and Meg had told me that his lair existed. A lake shimmering with the lights of the thousands of candles about the room lapped at the stone floor that rose out of it. The ceiling soared above my head, at least thirty to forty feet. I turned in a slow circle, my eyes wide as saucers as I took it in. It was a sight I'd never expected to see within the elegant, perfectly designed Opera, a completely natural wonder.

In the corner farthest from me sat a small desk, covered with what appeared to be sketches and a miniature of the stage, small figures upon it. Papers were scattered haphazardly about its surface, pens and watercolor pencils lying in piles. Further on was a table and a pair of chairs, high backed, carved mahogany, lined with scarlet cushions. A plate sat upon by a chair that was pulled out slightly, only crumbs remaining from what had probably been his breakfast, a goblet placed to the side. It struck me as incrediably sad that there were two chairs instead of just one: I knew that he had always lived alone.

From there the cavern rose, stairs cut into the stone leading up to a ledge. I followed the steps with my eyes up to a massive pipe organ set into the wall, a second set of pipes connected to the keys placed slightly in front of the other, brilliantly burning candles set all around it and upon its surface, a large scrolled music staff placed under the pipes.

A man sat at the keys, his dark hair mussed, a pencil in his hand scribbling furiously over the staff lined paper set into the holder. He was rocking back and forth, slow and rhymtically to a melody only he could hear. His opposite hand moved through the air, as if he held a maestro's wand, conducting an invisible orchestra. He wore a loose flowing black robe, intricate stitching across the back. He was humming, a low beautiful sound that had me slowly climbing the stairs to his side, my anger fading under this intimate glimpse of him and who he truly was.

Even as I came to stand beside him, he did not become aware of my presence, so lost in his music. I looked down at him, filled with soft longing as I watched him, so deep in his world of sound. His eyes were closed, the lines at the corners of his eyes sweetly familiar and dear, his lips set in lines of concentration, his entire face enthused with pleasure. _How I love him._

Slowly he began to come back to the earth, his face relaxing, his mouth parting and taking a deep breath, his hand lowering, the pencil beginning to write again even before his eyes opened. He sighed in near ecstasy, then opened his eyes. Before he noticed me standing at his elbow, I reached out on instinct and brushed his loose hair behind his left ear.

He turned to me slowly, his face still in my palm. His golden green eyes caught mine, so serious, so deep, and I could not stop my myself. I bent toward him and touched my lips to his, kissing him softly and slowly, but not deeply. He pressed his mouth gently to mine before I drew back. I adjusted the throw about my shoulders and sank to my knees before him, looking at the notes he'd written.

"Play it for me?" I asked quietly, lifting my eyes to his.

He reached down and ran a hand over my mussed hair, then straightened. "There are no words yet," he spoke hoarsely. "Music alone shall have to do." He turned back to me and I registered belatedly that he wore the mask once again. I nearly spoke up to tell him that he did not have to wear it in my presence, but I stopped myself, not wanting to draw attention to his face and destroy the quiet intimacy of this moment with him in his home. My anger had faded. His bringing me here was the ultimate show of his trust, a gift which I would not take for granted.

"Music alone is fine. You can always sing the words to me later, after you've written them." I caught myself, wishing to bite my tongue. I hadn't meant to speak of the future. I had no promise he would be a part of my future. I lowered my eyes, twisting my hands in the velvet throw.

Fingers lifted my chin, and I reluctantly looked at him.

"You shall be the first to hear them, my dear." And for the first time, the endearment was not said with sarcasm.

He turned back to the organ and rifled through the papers in front of him until he came to what must be the beginning. He straightened and carefully set his fingers to the keys and began to play.

I sat there, staring up at him, my mouth parted, my eyes wide with wonder as his music wrapped about me, drawing me in, then holding me there. It moved quickly at first, a rapid, joyful exhilaration of sound, like the discovery of a new love. The notes lifted my spirit, lifted my soul as it traveled higher and higher.

And then suddenly silence. A barely heard melody began to play, soft and filled with longing and sorrow, it slowly built until it was a slow tide of despair, washing over me, drowning me in a wrenching sadness. I closed my eyes as tears formed behind them. _He had written this for Christine._

It went on and on, hopefully sweet one moment, then ragged with pain the next.

But slowly behind the agonizing notes came a melody, quiet and soft. I realized that the tune had been there for a while, since the song had plummeted from its hope to its hoplessness, until now, but I hadn't noticed it. The wrenching sounds slowly faded, with the soft, comforting notes in the back, until all that was left was that quiet melody.

Then the lower register returned, but not with the agonizing pain as before. It gently met the softer melody playing slightly above it, until the two slowly became one, a new song. And he stopped.

My eyes were closed and I was trembling. I had never imagined that it was possible to catch so much in such a simple thing as sounds played together.

He cleared his throat, waking me from my reverie. I opened my eyes and watched him as he stood, holding out a hand to me. I rested my fingers in his and let him pull me gently to my feet.

He turned away from me and walked to his small, sketch covered desk and retrieved a small packet and a folded piece of black edged stationary and turned back to me, his face once again a study of cool elegance.

"Do you have any plans for your afternoon once I take you back up?" He asked, shrugging off his robe and laying it over a chair.

I sighed, the moments of closeness and intimacy now gone. "Yes, I still need to purchase one last dress. Something high collared. It's so cold now," I gestured, my hand indicating the world above us. I came down the stairs toward him, gazing at the many sketches laid across the table. Most were of Christine, dressed in an off the shoulder, Hispanic inspired ensemble, a blood red rose in her hair. They were aged and yellowed.

He stepped toward me and reached out, turning my right temple toward him. "You are feeling up to it, I take it?"

"Yes, I slept very well last night, dreamless...for the most part." I looked away, feeling my cheeks pinken.

His fingers carresed my temple, barely brushing against the fading bruises. "I slept deeply as well," he murmured, "only a dream or two to interrupt." His voice caught slightly and I looked up at him quickly, but he was already pulling away, and handing me the small packet and letter. "Would it trouble you to pick up some trifling things for me?"

I found myself smiling and taking the items from him. No demands this time, a request instead.

"Of course not, Erik. I would be happy to. I would not want to rouse the wrath of the Opera Ghost." I raised my eyes to him and grinned at him.

When his lips formed into a replying grin of his own and he grasped my shoulders firmly and turned me in the direction of the curtained bedchamber with an order to go dress or risk a swift punishment, I felt hope flicker, flare then burn steadily.

It did not extinguish.


	35. Chapter Thirty-Four

**Chapter 34**

As I left the Opera Populaire later that afternoon, dressed in my warm apricot wool gown, wrapped in my cloak, with my hair freshly pinned up and my face washed, the packet of money and Erik's list in my dress pocket, I reflected on the remainder of my time with Erik in his home.

After I'd returned from the bedchamber, dressed in my evening clothes from the night before, I'd found him setting a plate of bread and fruit on the table with a goblet of water for my breakfast. The gentle kiss I'd given him in thanks had come naturally, and the suprised but wondering look in his eyes as I'd pulled away made me turn with a smile on my face. He still seemed shocked that I would kiss him, touch him. It was something I hoped he would become accustomed to soon, as I didn't plan on ending this precious contact between us anytime in the near future. His lips on mine, so unthreatening, inciting warm needs and desires in me that I thought never to feel after Armand, were healing and mending parts of my soul that I believed would be ragged forever. And I carried a fragile hope inside me that mine upon his would have a similar effect upon his person.

I knew that loving him was not going to be easy, and anything but simple. The gentleness and tenderness he now treated me with was only one half of the coin that was Erik. I knew that a dark, angry side of him existed and could be brought out in him at anytime. He was not more one half than the other. They were both facets of him. I could only imagine what horrors he'd been made to suffer because of his face, and such a past would mold a man, change him, become a part of him, until it was impossible to ever remove those scars on his soul. But I knew that to love Erik was to love the gentle, tender man and humor the dark, volatile force of nature. It would be impossible to do otherwise.

After he'd dressed once more in one of his full suits and cloak and led me up to my room, handing me through the sliding mirror, he'd cradled and touched my face one last time, testing my bruises, then released me. I'd stood in the middle of the room, wondering if he would come to me again tonight, and I said goodbye to him softly. He'd stopped and turned back to me. With my pulse beating to a secret thrill, I'd watched him slowly walk toward me, each step graceful, his eyes boring into mine. When he'd stood in front of me at last, he'd took me in his arms and held me to him, lowering his mouth to mine and kissing me with a slow, devastating thoroughness that had had my bones turning soft by the time he pulled away. When I'd finally found the strength to open my eyes, he was gone.

I'd giggled like a sixteen year old girl.

Along the street outside, I opened the list that Erik had given me and perused it planning the route to take about the shops. Wine, some rounds of high quality cheese, several loaves of good bread, fruit and some boxes of sweets, which I found endearing. The food stuffs that he'd requested were all items that could be served cold, with no preparation. The poor man never cooked, it would be quite impossible in his subterrenean home, and I wondered if I could persuade the chef of the Opera Cafe to prepare me two hot meals one night so that Erik could enjoy a fresh cooked dinner.

He'd also requested another ream of the staff lined paper and a metronome. I would have to go to the musician shop.

First I darkened the door of one of the modistes I'd purchased a gown from on my last shopping excursion and bought a high collared linen dress in a dark scarlet color, a shade that had always suited my coloring. After paying for the garment and having it wrapped, a black netted snood caught my eye that would go quite well with most of my wardrobe and help keep my hair contained without all the tortuous pins. I had a few francs left and bought it as well.

After purchasing Erik's food needs at a market and his wine and chocolates at a gourmet shop, I headed towards the musician's supplier. The same kind clerk helped me once again and I was soon heading back toward the Opera, the sun shining through the clouds turning the snow to brilliant white sugar encouraging me to push back the hood of my cloak. The biting air was cold but refreshing, and I found myself smiling and humming the soft melody from the piece Erik had played for me that morning.

I entered the Opera, trotting down the steps to the Grand Foyer, looking forward to seeing my phantom again and giving him his groceries and supplies.

I was about to step from the shadows of the entrance into the brilliant light of the marbled foyer when a voice from my nightmares reached me from the foot of the staircase.

"I don't think I need to tell you how imperative it is I find this woman, my good lady. She means a great deal to me. I'm quite beside myself with worry over her welfare."

I covered my mouth, muffling my cry of fear, flattening myself against the alcove shadowed by the entrance and stared in horror at Armand, standing in front of the Grand Staircase.

He was dressed in a many caped great coat, his top hat held between his leather gloved hands, the gray suit underneath the black tweed immaculate and fitted to his tall, broad frame perfectly, as he always demanded his suits made. His dark brown hair was combed over in suave waves and draping rakishly over his forehead. His eyes were bluer than the sky outside, and currently filled with an affected concern, his austere handsome face set in lines of false worry. Just the sight of his polish and perfection made me ill, and I leaned against the marble at my back, trying to not to sink to the floor. He was the epitome of the Parisian nobleman, every inch of his face and frame made to attract the eye and ensnare the trust of society.

He was the emodiement of a monster to me, unspeakably cruel and perverse in his violence.

His man of business, Monsieur Defevre, a pug faced weasel of a man that I had despised, a familiar of the abuse that Armand had dealt me, the one person my husband would freely strike me in front of, stood at his side, nodding sympathetically, his hands clasping his own beaver hat behind him.

The woman they stood talking to, her face set in a noncommital expression, her gray eyes fathomless and giving no hint of what she was thinking, simply stood there, leaning upon her cane, nodding.

Armand handed a photograph to Madame Giry and I recognized the amber portrait of our wedding day, me in a lavish ivory gown, my hair spilling from a topknot, my face so innocent, so _unaware_. She took the photo, and looked down at it. No recognition flared in her eyes. She only raised her brows, and handed the portrait back.

"I'm sorry, my lord, I have not seen such a woman here. I very much doubt that the wife of a nobleman would seek employment in an opera house." She tossed her braid over one shoulder and gazed up at Armand, shaking her head slightly in the negative.

Armand gave a sigh, enthusing his voice with a mock sadness that made my fists clench in rage, and tucked the photograph into his coat.

"As it is, my good woman, if you happen to see my lovely Genevieve, please send a message 'round to my townhouse. My beloved wife and I simply had a lover's quarrel, you understand, and she's a silly girl, so flighty, you know. I'm sure we can come to an understanding and have this foolish little divorce idea put out of her charming little head." He bowed to Madame Giry, and set his hat back onto his head. With an equally arrogant gesture, Monsieur Defevre turned smartly on his heel and followed his employer out of the Opera.

I slunk back into the deep shadows as much as I could, pulling the hood over my face. As they passed by, I heard Armand growl low in his throat to his flunky:

"Francois, when I find that whore of a wife of mine, I'm going to thrash her to death for this! Putting me through this humiliation. And when I'm nearly done with her, maybe I'll let you and some friends of mine have a go at her, and if that doesn't finish her off..." he patted his waistcoat, where I knew his pistol rested against his side. They disappeared and I finally sunk to the floor, my stomach rolling at the thought of he and his friends rutting over me before ending my life. I didn't take it as the overly perverse thought of an angry man. I knew Armand. He would take sick pleasure in watching someone else rape me.

I clutched my stomach, tears rolling down my cheeks underneath the hood. How had I ever let myself become so comfortable in my new life here? How had I forgotten Armand's face that morning in court when he'd promised to kill me for shaming him so?

Footsteps nearing me had me looking up through my tears. Madame Giry knelt before me. She held out her hand.

"Come, child. I think we have much to discuss."

I nodded wearily and stood taking her hand, my shopping bags clutched in my nerveless grasp.

A few moments later, we sat in one of the Private Boxes on the Grand Tier, the auditorium silent, still, and dark beneath us. The silence was near overwhelming.

"We'll be private here, my dear. No one will interrupt us." She peeled my wool gloves off of my hands and rubbed my chilled palms briskly between hers. She looked up at me, her eyes unquestionably serious.

"You are divorced from that man, aren't you?" Her voice was low and quiet, undemanding but compelling.

I nodded, staring at my skirts. "Yes," I whispered. "I was his wife for ten years."

She made a sound of acknowledgement.

"I take it that is the reason you go by your maiden name? And dress like you do even though you are an attractive woman? You are hiding?" She didn't not look up, but continued warming my hands, which felt like blocks of ice.

"Yes, I do not wish to be found. I just want to...be left alone by him." I turned away from her, gazing out over the empty theatre.

"You have a reason for divorcing him?"

The question was asked lightly, but with an expectation of an answer.

I stared into the darkness, remembering so many nights that I'd cried myself to sleep after he would come to my room to take his rights, wanting so badly to simply be loved by a man rather than used. All the times the back of his hand had stunned me to silence if I spoke out of turn. All the dinners, when after the guests left, he accused me of flirting and acting like a tart, then severely beating me for my wantoness, when all I had done was smile and make polite conversation.

"Yes, but my reason was not seen as valid. My family had disowned me. The courts granted me nothing. That's why I'm here."

"Was it adultery? Was he unfaithful to you?"

I laughed softly, my brows lifting in an ironic gesture, more tears filling my vacant eyes.

"If only that had been the reason. He was unfaithful, yes, but I had been raised to turn a blind eye to that. If adultery had been the only vice, I could have remained married, quite happily."

I raised a hand from hers and swiped at my tears.

"Did you have a lover?" She reached out and took my hand once more and stroked my palm gently, soothingly.

I shook my head, remembering all the times he'd accused me of that very thing. "I was completely faithful to my husband, Madame Giry. I never dared look at another man." _I would have already been dead had I._

Her hands stilled, and she was silent. I looked over at her.

She was running a finger over a barely noticeable white line of scartissue upon my outer wrist. It had faded over the two years since the torn skin had been stitched, but it still gleamed back slightly in the gaslights.

I swallowed the lump in my throat before I spoke quietly, my voice going dead.

"One night he believed that I had written a letter to a paramour. It had only been a missive to my friend from the convent I was schooled in. He didn't believe me. He said I would write no more letters if he could possibly help me. He twisted my wrist, breaking it. The bone broke through the skin. After the doctor splinted it, he sewed the tear back up."

She stared at, her usually collected face reflecting back the horror of what I'd just told her. I looked back down at my skirts, wanting to not see the shocked pity that would soon flare in her eyes.

"He...abused you? Physically?" She scooted closer to me, holding my hands fiercely to hers now.

I nodded. "From our wedding night to the last day I spent in his company."

"Badly?"

"I was driven to the doctor's home in the middle of the night more times than I can remember."

"He did more than just strike you didn't he?" she whispered.

I nodded again, tears slipping down my cheeks. "He took his husbandly rights whether I was prepared or not. And I never was prepared." My voice lowered to a harsh whisper and I began choking on my sobs. "I can never have children."

She took me in her arms without compunction, pulling me to her and rocking me back and forth. I cried onto her shoulder, the stark terror of seeing him so close today overwhelming me, the promise of his perverse violence making me sick with fear, hatred, and a nauseating shame.

It had been so long since another woman had held me. The smell of her lavender water made me sob even harder, remembering the embrace of my mother when I'd had my first heartache and she'd rocked me gently in my bed, stroking my hair, calling me her precious girl. So different from the cold stranger that had turned away from me the day I told her I was going to leave Armand, even though she knew the things he had done to me.

"Why did he do such things to you?" she murmured soothingly against my hair.

"I do not know. But he accused me even on our wedding night of planning to be unfaithful to him. Just the mention of a friend's husband or acquaintance of his would send him into a rage." I sat up from her, holding my stomach, shaking badly. "I never was unfaithful. I loved him until he twisted my love into hate. I would have never hurt him!"

I stood and gathered my bags, wiping my tears away. "I have to go." She reached for me, but I backed away, shaking my head, giving her a trembling smile. "Thank you, Madame Giry for not telling him of me." I began to turn but she grasped my arm.

"And I won't, Genevieve. But my dear," she stood before me, reaching up and stroking my hot face, "not everyone is your husband. Please don't be afraid to trust again. Please don't be afraid to let a man love you, physically or otherwise. I think you're...needed here...very badly."

I looked at her, but said nothing.

I turned away and made my way as quickly to my room as possible.

I had let myself forget that pain, that agony that Armand had put me through. I could never let a man that close again. It would eventually lead to that moment where I had a choice to make, and once I'd crossed that bridge there would be no turning back. My heart would once again rest in the hands of someone who could either break it or cherish it. And I could not be broken again.

I opened the door to my room.

Erik stood before me. He reached around me and shut the door, snibbing the lock.

My bags fell out of my hand and hit the floor.


	36. Chapter Thirty-Five

**Chapter 35**

My bags slid out of my grasp and onto the floor. The wine bottles hit with an audible thump, but did not break. A round of cheese tumbled out but landed forgotten to the side.

He did not speak, but I was very much aware of how harsh he was breathing, his chest rising and falling savagely. I didn't look at him; I couldn't. I knew he had heard all and I waited, knowing that he would fly into a rage any minute. I had deceived him from the beginning of our tumultous, muddled relationship. It was easier to let him think I was divorced because of adultery by either party, then admit that I had been abused by a man. I was ashamed of my scars, both visible and on my soul. I had been unforgiveably stupid for putting so much trust, so much love into a man's hands that I barely knew. And _everyone_, no matter their relationship to me except for Madame Giry today, believed that somehow I had done something to deserve my treatment at Armand's hands. After all, why would such a well-bred, elegant, refined gentleman beat his wife for no reason?

I waited, all his gentleness of earlier forgotten, for his harsh words, his demeaning mocks, his disgust at having kissed and touched a woman who had obviously done something horrendous to deserve a constant hard hand on her for ten years.

My eyes were closed, tears sliding from beneath my eyelids as he stepped so close to me I could feel the heat from his body. I was prepared for his rejection, knowing already there was no hope for us. I could never give myself again, and he would never want to have a woman who had been so damaged internally, both in heart and body. I did not even know if it would be possible for me to enjoy the joys of the flesh after the injuries I had endured. He deserved someone who could love him with her whole body, heart, and mind. I would always have too much fear.

When he lifted my scarred wrist in his hand and traced the blemish with his finger, I stilled. He was shaking violently with rage, I could feel it in the tremble of the hand that held mine.

"There are others." His voice was low and ugly with his anger, his breaths shuddering in and out of him.

"Scars?" I whispered, keeping my eyes closed, not ready to face his wrath.

"Yes." He rasped the word out, his finger still tracing the marred flesh on my wrist.

"Many. Most of them...are hidden...under my clothes. That one is in the most visible area." I spoke so low, my voice so dead that I wondered he could even hear me.

"Where?"

I swallowed, and placed a hand over my abdomen. "Th..there are s..some on my stomach and ribs. And...along my back and shoulders. And my...knees and legs and a lot on my..." I couldn't finish, my tears clogging my throat. _Please don't make me tell you this!_

"Where?" he growled, stepping even closer.

"My...inner thighs and...feminine...area." I turned my head away, the shame of it so great.

His breath was coming raggedly now, and I could easily imagine his expression: his eyes blazing, his teeth bared, his mouth in a feral snarl. I couldn't blame him. He had begun to turn his attentions, or at least his frustrations with Christine, onto a woman who could never give him what he wanted most.

"Look at me, Genevieve."

"No, please..."

"Yes! Look at me."

I swallowed over the lump in my throat and raised my eyes to him, more tears blurring my vision.

I gasped softly when he took me fiercely into his arms, locking them about me tight and burying his face in my throat, his shoulders and chest heaving as he breathed harshly against my skin. I closed my eyes and put my head upon his shoulder, my arms creeping hesitantly about his waist under the cloak, my heart breaking. _I couldn't have this any longer._

I cried softly against his coat, and he lifted a shaking hand to the back of my head, holding me against him.

"I'm so sorry, Genevieve. I would have never used you so if I'd known why you were running from him." He was near sobbing and I lifted my hand and touched his masked cheek gently, unable to stop myself. I slipped my fingers underneath it and pulled it off of him and let it fall to the floor, then caressed his bare skin, my fingers lovingly tracing his sunken eye socket, catching his tears. His holding me was more than I'd ever expected. I had believed that I would see no more of him after today. That he would back away in disgust. Who wanted to make love to damaged goods with no promise that the other could even enjoy it? And I knew that that was what he needed most: a woman to lie with him and give him pleasure. And I desperately wanted to be that woman who woke at his side every morning. But it was unfair to him to only give him half of myself. I could not expect him to spend his life and give his heart to a woman who could not give her body to him.

He turned his head, kissing my palm upon his misshapen cheek and looked down at me. I lifted my head and raised my eyes to his, memorizing his features, which had become so dear to me so quickly. I reached up and gently touched the pitiful cavity of his nose on the right side. Even that had become precious to me.

He took my face in his hands, his thumbs against the tracks of my tears.

"He raped you." He nearly groaned the words, his face crumbling momentarily then he composed himself.

I nodded, lowering my eyes, fingering his cravat.

"He raped you, struck you, broke your bones..." his voice broke and he took a deep breath, then continued. "And for no reason, other than he believed you were unfaithful."

I stepped out of his embrace and bent, setting the bag on the floor upright and placing the round of cheese back into it, then went to the mirror. I looked at myself, wiping away my tears. If I didn't compose myself soon, I would not be able to do what I knew I had to do in a moment.

"He constantly accused me of having affairs. Yet...I know that he knew that I had never done such a thing. I was in his company at all times and when he left during the days for his duties at the capital, there were footmen always about who were instructed to keep a strict eye upon me. I never had the chance to have a lover, even had I wanted one." I shook my head, turning back to him and leaning against the mirror. "He knew that. He knew that I never had a paramour..."

"But yet he beat you for having one." Erik came to me, lifting my chin and placing his forehead against mine. My eyes slid closed on the pain in my heart.

He raised his head and looked away, his face thoughtful under the still palpable rage. "Perhaps to keep you from having one, ever."

I scoffed softly. "It worked. A little too well. He acheived his goal," I finished softly.

Erik turned to me sharply. "What do you mean?"

I swallowed and looked him directly in the eyes, wanting him to know exactly what I meant.

"I'll never take a lover, not then, not ever. The pain...I'll never be able to let a man take me without...thinking of it. It would only be frustrating and painful for both me and the man who would want me."

He was still, simply staring at me. I kept my eyes firmly fixed on his, wanting him to understand. Over the last twenty four hours he had come to need me, to hold him and touch him, kiss him as Christine never would be able to. I could not say if he had begun to feel more for me than simply a need for physical comfort, but I knew that the next step in this odd relationship of ours would be for me to become his companion and lover. And I could not be one to him without being the other. I knew that it would never be enough for Erik, who was such a passionate man.

He came to me, sliding his hands about my throat slowly and sensually and kissing my temple.

"Genn, I've never been... intimate with a woman. But I know that if you would let me have you and take you, gently and slowly, that I could bring you fufillment. I think I know...what would...give you pleasure."

I closed my eyes, tears again burning the back of my eyes, my bones feeling soft and heavy at the images he conjured in my mind. _His body moving slowly and rhythmically upon mine on the velvet draped bed in his home, the gossamer curtains shielding us from the candles flickering outside..._ I shook my head. It wasn't that simple. When that moment came, fear would choke me, turning my body to stone, and I wouldn't be able to focus on the moment. And I couldn't love him the way he needed. I could never fully trust him. That part of me was gone forever.

"No, I can't. I won't do that to you, Erik. I won't put you through almost having another woman, and then her not being able to fufill your desires. Please don't ask it of me." I raised my eyes to his again. "I can't love you."

My heart wailedin agony as he backed slowly away from me, his beautiful eyes filling with tears. He looked away, staring at the floor, a muscle in his left jaw flickering. He bent and retrieved the mask, turning away from me and sliding it back on. As it slid into place, he straightened, the defeated fall of his shoulders automatically straightening under the cloak.

He turned his head, only his masked profile visible. "If he ever comes near you again, I'll kill him. I might kill him anyway for doing this to you, making you feel this way." His voice was pure ice, cold and dangerous. He bent to the bag and took out my parcel, placing it on the floor slowly, and taking his own goods in his arm. I stepped away from the mirror as he turned and came to depress the mechanism. He didn't look at me as the mirror slid open.

"Erik," I whispered.

He stopped, just inside the gloom of the corridor.

"Please, if you need anything...please, let me know." I reached out to him, but he only nodded stiffly and the mirror slid into place, leaving me alone.

I walked to the bed and sat.

I cried for us both.


	37. Chapter Thirty-Six

**Chapter 36**

The clock upon my dresser struck midnight.

I laid awake in my small bed, my blankets pulled up around my shoulders to ward off the cold. Under the covers, I'd put on a heavy, long sleeved night rail and a pair of wool stockings. The room was chilled and the large mirror upon the wall was actually slightly foggy with the frigid air.

I stared at the mirror, my hand wrapped about the linen of my pillow case. I was silently willing it to slide open, revealing him standing behind it, dressed immaculately, his cloak draped over his form. He would come to the bed, throwing back the covers and scooping me up and carrying me to his home where he'd lay me upon the velvet draped bed and then undress and come to stretch out beside of me and simply hold me, sing to me, and we would fall asleep in each other's arms.

Unable to sleep, I had lain awake for most of the night, thinking about what I had said to Erik.

_"I can't love you."_

Those words had carried two meanings for him, only one for me. I knew as soon as they had left my mouth that he believed I spoke of both my inablilty to give myself to him and my unwillingness to share my heart with him. I didn't mind him laboring under the misconception. In fact, it was what I preferred.

When I had told him I couldn't love him, I had spoke of only the physcial. I loved him. So much that it stole my breath at times with the beautiful pain of wanting something so very much. But I could never part with that knowledge, especially to him.

Erik had never been loved, in any sense of the word. If he were to know that I was in love with him, he would expect more of me than I was willing to give, more than I was _able_ to give to him. I didn't want to hurt him more than he had already been hurt. It was better this way, him believing that I couldn't give myself to him, my heart or my body. Perhaps he would grow tired of me and see that I was only a distraction to him to take his mind off of Christine. He would move on, perhaps find someone who was a whole woman and could take and give freely, without fear or hestitation. Someone who could love him without reservation and be everything to him that he needed so badly. A lover, a friend, a wife, maybe even a mother to his children.

I repeated the thought to myself over and over again, that he needed to find a woman who could be his in every way. Reading quietly with him, holding his arm on long walks, sitting at his feet as he played, lying bare and suffused with pleasure in his arms after making love, holding his child against her breast. The images made me sick with pain.

I wondered again and again throughout the night if what I _could_ offer him could possibly be enough. If a woman who could hold his hand, sit and listen to his music, share kisses and touches with, sleep beside him every night, but nothing more be his life companion.

But I knew that those touches, kisses, and nights in his bed would only lead to desire, which would lead to frustration at my inability to let him take me. And even if one evening I would let him lead me to the bed, undress me, and get my body beneath his, and that final last moment came,I knew I would go stiff and panic, terrifed, expecting pain. In time he would grow to hate me, and I would hate myself. I could be no more to him a friend at most, and after today and my words to him, even that seemed an impossibility.

Under the covers, I finally warmed and my eyelids grew heavy. The morning held the promise of urgent activity. I would return to my duties and the task of beginning the designs and concepts for _Aida_, which would open on New Year's Day. Rehearsals would also start on the morrow for the new production, the cast already decided upon, and performances of _Le Baudelaire_ would continue until Christmas Eve, which was only three weeks away. Every day and every evening would be filled with reponsibilities and tasks for me. There would barely be time to draw breath. Also, we had been informed that on New Year's Eve, the Opera Populaire was to resume its tradition of a grand and lavish Bal Masque. It was common for many of the cast and staff that were privilaged enough to garner a invitation to the main celebration to commission the opera costume department to make their disguises. It was an opportunity to earn extra funds, but promised to double our workload, as the costumes for _Aida _would have to be completed at the exact same time. The theme had been announced as Grecian Gods and Goddesses, which at least meant that the majority of the ensembles would be simple togas, robes, and one shouldered or sleeveless sheaths. Madame Lefevre, Marie, Jeanette and myself, as the principals of the costuming department had received invitations and would have to create our own gowns as well.

There was much to do and the thoughts of so many duties hanging just in the horizon had my mind characteristically drifting off my troubles and onto my tasks. I finally slipped into sleep.

_The cottage was a small one, but comfortable and well furnished. The crisp ocean breeze drifted into the window, setting the cotton and lace eyelet curtains billowing softly. Outside was a garden blooming with flowers of every variety, their sweet fragrance filling the quaint home from every surface, where a vase sat, filled with their natural beauty._

_I sat in a corner of the little parlor, a sketchbook upon my lap, a new gown appearing upon the paper from my pencil strokes. I was dressed in a scooped neck dress of pale green linen, my spectacles gone and my hair worn loose and comfortable tied back from my face. I was humming a soft tune in my off key voice. It was a melody from the opera my husband had been composing of late._

_My face was smiling, a blush painting my cheeks as I slipped into a day dream of the night before, spent making love to my amorous husband, remembering our heated passion, my thrill at his touch, his beautiful pitch perfect moans in my ear._

_From the other room came a soft giggle and a happy cry of "Maman!"_

_I put down my sketchbook, smiling, and stood, my hand coming to rest happily at the swell of my abdomen, my new child shifting and kicking gently within me. A small dark haired boy with golden green eyes ran into the room, something held in his small palms. I laughed as a little toad nearly jumped into my lap. He released the tiny creature at the door leading to the gardens and climbed into my arms as I sat back down, his head coming to rest upon my belly. He giggled as the baby kicked him against his cheek. I stoked his dark chestnut hair, my heart swelling painfully with love for him._

_From the music room behind me came a low call of "Genn, where are you, love?" _

_I answered my husband and turned to watch him stroll gracefully into the room, his hair loose and falling about his mask and the bare handsome side of his face. He smiled, and came behind my chair reaching about me and placing a soft kiss upon the side of my throat. I lifted a hand and stroked his masked cheek. He reached out keeping one arm about me, the other coming to rest across the narrow back of his son, his hand coming to stroke the child's hair then my swollen stomach._

_I leaned against the chair's back, basking in the passionate but quiet elegant love of my husband, the innocent wonder of my son's gasps as he received another good kick against his cheek, and the promise of new life growing between us. I closed my eyes and smiled softly to myself, tears burning the back of my eyes with joy._

When I awoke to the sound of what was probably a running boy knocking upon my door to ask if I would like a bath, the tears had found their way down my cheeks.

In my dreams there was no Armand, no abusive past marriage, no inhibitions in my ability to love Erik, no damaged anatomy preventing my carrying his child.

I would have sold my soul if my dreams could have been fact.

I sat up, brushing away my tears, going to the door, pulling on my robe. Even before I flicked the lock open I heard the quiet sobbing and knew it wasn't a running boy.

I threw open the door and stared.

Marie and Jeanette stood on the other side, tears streaking their pretty faces, their noses swollen.

"Genevieve," Marie cried, putting a hand over her mouth, choking. "Madame Lefevre is dead."


	38. Chapter Thirty-Seven

**Chapter 37**

Madame Julia Lefevre was sixty-three years old when she passed.

For several days, she had made passing comments about her left arm going numb at points during the day, but none of us, including her I'm sure, expected her heart to fail in the middle of the night while she slept. It was a blow to us, especially to the twins and I.

Marie had found her. She'd knocked upon her door several times that morning and had received no answer. Madam was a light sleeper and usually woke at the drop of a hat, but Marie had not heard any movement inside her room, and grew worried. She'd found a member of the cleaning staff to unlock the door.

She'd appeared as if she was simply dreaming, her face formed into a soft smile, her hands clasped over middle, her head turned to the side.

I stood against the wall, my hands twisting in my robe as she was covered, tears falling silently down my cheeks as I whispered a prayer for this dear woman who had become a bit of a mother to me. The twins leaned on either one of my shoulders, sobbing quietly. I let go of my nervous gesture and put an arm about their small shoulders. Madame Lefevre had practically mothered these girls since the age of 14, and they were now like orphans. From the way they clung to me, I knew I had now taken on the role of surrogate mother.

Monsieur Andre walked into the room, shaking his head at the still form of the small woman under the blankets. He cleared his throat and turned to me, clasping his hands behind his back.

"Mademoiselle Devereaux, I know right now is a difficult time, but later this afternoon could you meet Firmin and I in our office? I think we need to discuss your employment here and the changes that will have to be made."

I nodded, looking at the floor. With a condolence, he left awkwardly.

Two hours later, after returning numbly to my room and changing and dressing my hair, I sat in a wing chair of the manager's office, staring at my hands in my lap. They had not come in yet, and I was left alone with my thoughts.

Everything had changed in one moment.

The twins were too young to take over the Opera's costuming department and not experienced enough in seamstressing. The task would fall to me. I knew I was more than capable, but I had not expected to have to take on the reins of the department quite so soon. Madame Lefevre had been in the process of training me to understand the full concept of a design and the final execution of an idea. Costuming was very different from the role of a modiste. Every detail from the original sketching of a possible idea to the end product would now have to be learned and mastered and as quickly as possible. The costumes for _Aida_ were to have been my creation alone, but I had fully expected Madame to be there at my shoulder, guiding me. I would have to procure copies of the liberettos of the characters and maybe even the musical scores to understand how the costumes should reflect the feelings of the piece.

It was a daunting prospect but one I would not be able to shy away from. There would be hardly time to grieve for my friend. I did not expect that the managers would delay the designs to begin today for _Aida_. The opening was only four weeks away. And the costume requests for the Grecian inspired Bal Masque would soon be flooding in. Madame Lefevre had been a permanent fixture of the Opera Populaire, but the work would not wait for us to mourn her passing into her eternal reward.

The door behind me opened and Monsieur Firmin poked his head in.

"We'll be with you in a bit, my dear. We're just having a quick meeting with the patrons to discuss the change in the costuming department. Ten minutes, mademoiselle."

I nodded, smiling slightly and sighed as the door once again closed.

I fingered the black cotton of my skirts, thoughtfully.

At least I would have no time to think about Erik over the next several days and this strange relationship of ours which had been put under horrible strain yesterday. I missed him horribly already.

I stilled my thoughts and let myself remember the dream I'd had. The little comfortable cottage, my child putting his small arms about me, the throb of life within me, the touch of Erik behind me kissing my throat. The overwhelming feeling of love and contentment. The image made me incredibly sorrowful, but at the same time made me smile softly. At least I could have a happy future in my dreams.

In the deep shadows of the office, I heard a soft shush of fabric.

I lifted my head and watched as the object of my thoughts and dreams walked toward me slowly, running his gloved hand over the desk. He stopped, raising a hip to sit casually against the side.

He said nothing, only gazed at me quietly, his expression unfathomable.

I stared up at him over me and my lips finally formed a trembling smile for him. The sight of him, so elegant, but relaxed and languid as he rarely was, was a comforting sight. I had worried before I fell asleep last night that he would never come to me again, despite the fact that it would be better if he would not.

"I am very sorry for your loss, Genevieve. You have been put in an unenviable position. A great deal of unexpected duties and no time to mourn or prepare yourself." His voice was quiet, and unexpectedly soft and gentle.

I lowered my eyes.

"I'm frightened, but I hope I please Madame. She put so much store in her duties."

"You're very capable, Genevieve."

"I do hope you are right. If I cannot do this well, I'll lose my posistion." And that was unacceptable.

Erik was quiet for a few moments, but then he stood and came to stand before me. He held out a gloved hand and I stared at it uncertainly, but finally put my fingers in his. He pulled me up gently and took me in his arms, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead.

I sighed with the familiar embrace and what it meant, he was not furious with me, and slipped my arms about his waist under his cloak, leaning my head upon his chest, listening to the slow throb of his heart. He slid a hand comfortingly down my spine.

"Erik...I.."

"Hush. We will discuss it another time. I can be patient, Genevieve. I do not believe a line of women are at this moment beating upon my door for my attentions. I can be...what you need me to be." He chuckled softly against my hair. "I have found that human companionship is to my liking. I shouldn't want to give up the friendship of my little seamstress. You are useful to me yet, my dear." His words were sarcastic, but gentle and I found myself pulling away, laughing up at him.

"Oh, you." I stroked the unmasked side of his face, loving him despite myself. "I suppose you do need me. Afterall," I grinned, straightening his cravat, "who would fetch your fine cheeses and chocolates and critique your music?"

He firmly set me back from him, taking on a schoolmaster's demeanor that had me laughing.

"Fine indeed, coming from a woman who can't carry a tune in a bucket. And you shall have to have someone explain the various operas and scores to you, since you will be handling all the concepts of the costumes from now on. You'll need some help with the visualization."

I smiled and turned back to my chair, sinking into my seat and arranging my skirts. "Acting as my assistant, are you now? I believe Madam Lefevre did not go home to her Lord quite envisioning _that_. We shall have to fit you up with some proper garments won't we? I can see you in a conservative high collared gown with measuring tape about your neck. Quite the diamond of the first water you'd be."

With a growl, he pulled me from the chair again and hauled me against him, lowering his forehead to mine and baring his teeth. "Quite the cheeky little piece you are! We'll see how clever you'll be when I force you to sit for hours and listen to me lecture you on the history of _Aida_ and all its various hidden meanings."

I giggled like a girl half my age and wound my arms around his neck, unquestionably grateful for the return of our easy banter that we'd shared yesterday morning in his home. As much as I'd inwardly railed for ever letting myself love him and get so close to him, I could not fool myself into believing that I could ever do without him now. I would never be to him what I wanted and yearned for, but I couldn't give him up completely. My life would be gray and empty without his thrilling presence, his droll humor, the rare glimpses of the very human and loving man underneath the pain he carried on his shoulders.

And I knew that he not only offered his continuing friendship and admitted his need for my services just for _my_ gratification, but also for himself. He needed to feel accepted and to have that precious human contact that everyone but I and Christine for a short time had denied him.

When he lowered his head, his lips parting, I didn't shy away from him but turned my mouth up to his and let him give me a soft, chaste kiss that had much more to do with affection than passion. I returned the kiss, and when he lifted his head, I pressed my lips once to his chin, then stepped away.

Outside the door we heard the voices of the approaching managers. He raised a finger to his lips, then kissed my forehead one last time and silently disappeared into the shadows. I heard the barely audible sound of paneling sliding shut, and he was gone.

I sat back into my chair, unable to stop smiling.

The managers came in, apologizing for my wait, their hands filled with leather folders of papers, which would be my new contract of employment.

I smiled up at them, and edged forward in my seat, ready to do my best to make my dear late friend pleased.

Two hours later I sat in the auditorium, a sketchbook in my hand, a pencil being thoughtfully chewed between my lips. The very first rehearsals for _Aida_ were being done upon the stage, a simple reading of the liberetto and a rough vocal performance of the arias and choruses.

I listened carefully to the music and the various principals reading and singing their roles. Ideas had already begun to form in my mind for the main costumes. Amneris, the Princess of Egypt, played by Madame Antoinette Jean, the lead mezzo, would wear a dyed crepe muslim gown of deep violet, off set by a thick gold chain about her collarbone and an elaborate headpiece. Golden snakelike bracelets would wrap about her arms and a pair of sandals died gold would rest on her feet. My pencil began to fly over the paper again, sketching the arching cobra on her headpiece. The faux gold pieces would actually be commisioned by the prop department, and I and the twins would add the deep shimmering paint and the jewels made of paste.

I looked over at Carlotta, who would play Aida, the slave of Amneris and the princess of Ethopia. Her gown would have to be a much simpler, coarser gown and I envisioned dark green, almost a deep forest color, with a golden collar signifying her slavery and thick gold bands about her wrists. She would not wear a headpiece but a scarf tied about her hair to hide her beauty from Radames, the soldier of the Egyptian Army who was in love with her.

Radames was to be played by Monsieur Erique Louroux, a rather round and balding fellow with a lavicious eye that I couldn't help but notice often fell on I and the twins when we were about. The man made me ill, but I set to designing his costume, a dark tunic, overlaid with a gold breastplate and a gold helmet with the arching cobra, and sandals with knee high laces. It would be rather difficult to make such a heavy man look graceful in such a costume, but I was hardly a miracle worker.

Monsieur Devre DeLuc, an obscenely handsome man with roving eyes and hands was to play Amonasro, Aida's father, the King of Ethopia. His costume would be a deep gold muslim robe, with intesecting colors of emerald and sapphire passing through it, his head piece, a tall narrow crown, high and elaborate. A wide belt of gold would go across his waist. The baritone would have no problem looking well in his ensemble; he was exceedingly tall and muscular, sleek and toned. He was constantly prodding at Monsieur Louroux, insulting his sexuality as a tenor. The two hated each other with a passion, ironic in that Amonasro condemns Radames to death.

The corps de ballet would be slave girls, much like Aida herself, and the twins had informed me that there were rather elaborate manacles and chains in the prop room from the production of Hannibal that the Opera had performed two years ago. The cuffs were especially made to fit the slender wrists of the dancers and would serve very well in this production. Their costumes would be coarse, thin cotton, died various shades of jewel colors, scarfs about their heads and golden collars around their necks. The chorus members would also be done in similiar costumes, depending upon if their characters were royalty or slaves.

Now that I had the general idea for each costume, and the overall look and feel of the production, I could sit down and begin the long task of designing each specific piece. After each costume was completed on paper, I would start the rigourous tasks of measuring each and every performer for each costume. Then I and the twins would have to make several trips to the fabric shops to ensure we had every last yard we would need. Then the truly difficult work would begin, cutting each seperate piece out and forming the costumes and fitting them to the performers until they were perfect, then afixing the appropriate closures. Dress rehearsals would reveal if each individual's costume would work for them, and if not, changes would be made.

I closed my sketchbook with a snap and laid it aside, leaning my head back and staring at the massive chandelier above my head, the thousands of crystals twinkling in the gas flames of the bulbs set into its interior. I lifted a hand to my temple and closed my eyes, sinking very unladylike into my seat.

It was only eleven o'clock in the morning and already I was ready to crawl into my little bed and sleep like a child.

Madame Lefevre's body had been removed from her room and taken to Perros Guirec to prepare for her funeral. She'd had no surviving family, her only child dead at a very young age and her husband passed on, so the Opera Populaire was fitting the cost of her final expenses. Marie, Jeanette and I had spoke to the messenger from the cemetery, letting him know what flowers to set in the small chapel for her funeral, which would be tommorow, and what kind of memorial to carve for her. A simple stone bench, with an eternally praying cherub on one end would mark her grave, with the words "Beloved Friend and Creative Soul" etched into the surface. The cemetery was within a good distance by carriage or horseback from the Opera, but it was a small one, with beautiful sculptures and a quiet sense of peace about it.

In my meeting with the managers, they had informed me, as I had already guessed, that I would be assuming the role of Head Costumer. The posistion came with a generous padding of my salary and complete control over the costuming department. After signing my contract and goggling at the numbers for my salary, which admittedly wasn't much compared to my former allowance that Armand had allowed me, but was _quite_ more than what I had been earning.

I had also been informed that Madame Lefevre's room, which was in a different wing and substancially larger and far more elegant than mine, was available to me and that my things could be moved to it at anytime.

But I had suprised them when I'd declined and stated that I would prefer to remain in my much smaller room. I had quickly explained that I had grown very comfortable in the small space and enjoyed the privacy that the seclusion from the rest of the rooms allowed me. They'd simply shrugged and said they would offer the larger room to somebody else. I'd assured them that would be fine.

My real reason for wanting to stay in my little room was the mirror on the wall, Erik's means of visiting me. Madame Lefevre's former room had not contained such a mirror. I did not want to cut off Erik's access to me and the distance of my room from all the others kept our visits private. It would be too risky for him to travel down the hallway unseen to my new room.

And then the fleeting minutes we'd spent this morning together, the quiet affection and easy companionship that had infused our interactions since the moment I'd waken in his bed until Armand once again come to knock on my door and remind me of my past. It had been comforting to be held by him again, to feel that connection of touch and warmth. He had made the offer to be my friend only, and I knew how much it cost him to extend that olive branch. He had never known the act of physical love and he was in the prime of his life, only five to ten years older than myself. What agony he must have gone through, wanting and lusting after Christine so badly, only to have to quell his desire again and again. Then I had come along with my inexperience and my acceptance of his face, responding to his touches, freely letting him kiss me and kissing him back, letting him hold me and sleep beside me. He had probably believed that I would become his lover and finally quench his need for what Christine hadn't been able to give him. And then as we were getting so close to one another, I had had to confess to him my fear of physical intimacy and my reluctance, my incapability, to allow another that close again, and had dashed his hopes of ever making love to a woman. For him to accept my friendship with the promise of nothing more was a sacrifice on his part that I would not take for granted.

From the back of the auditorium, my name was called. I turned and saw Madame Giry beckoning me. I stood and followed her onto the Grand Staircase.

"I heard about Madame Lefevre, my dear. I'm very sorry to lose her. She was a good woman to know." She turned toward me, resting on her cane.

I nodded, holding my sketchbook close to my chest. "Yes, I'm going to miss her terribly." We began to walk down the stairs, her leading, heading toward the cafe. It was nearing lunch.

"I had meant to ask you." She looked over her shoulder at me. "The...things we discussed yesterday. Was Madame Lefevre the only other besides I who knew that you are...in your situation?"

I cleared my throat and entered the cafe with her, the aroma of bread and some savory soup reaching me. My stomach growled with hunger; I had not eaten since yesterday afternoon while I had been out on my errands.

"There is one other who knows of my...situation and of my...circumstances that I spoke to you of yesterday." I did not mention who the one other was, but I knew from her slow nod that she knew who I spoke of.

"Yes, I hazarded that he knew. He seems to know all that goes on in this opera house. I would not be suprised if he overheard our conversation in the box." She didn't turn to look at me and I raised my head, a suspicion growing.

"What box did you lead me to yesterday, Madame? In my state of distraught I did not even notice." I caught up with her, looking down at her.

She smiled to herself and her expression contained a bit of shame.

"I took you to Box Five, my dear."

I stared at her, my mouth open as she sat. I slowly sank down in the seat across from her and laid my sketch book upon the table.

"You knew he would hear, didn't you?" I felt anger begin to rise in me.

She raised pleading eyes to mine and took my hand.

"Genevieve, I have known Erik for many, many years. I remember before Christine came that he would play his music all the time. I would stand in the corridors behind the mirrors that he built, which only I knew the secret of, and listen to him. While he had Christine with him, his music contained so much dark passion and violence that it frightened me at times. But after that night when he took her off the stage during their song, and she left him in the cellars to die of a broken heart, he stopped playing. I never heard his music again. Only empty silence." She grew quiet, her face reflecting the depth of sorrow. "But one day I stood in that same corridor thinking of him and I heard it. A song played in the depths of his home. A soft haunting melody that contained so much quiet longing in it and so much innocent joy. I could hear his voice lifted over it, singing wordlessly and I knew that Erik had found happiness again. That was yesterday dear, only moments before your former husband accosted me in the foyer and I saw you in the shadows."

She grew still and watched me quietly. I stared down at the glossy wooden tabletop, my eyes misting over with tears. I remembered the song that Erik had played for me yesterday morning. He must have played it again while I was out purchasing his supplies. He must have felt hope for once in his life. Maybe not hope that I would love him or love for me, but the promise of someone to share his life with. And then I'd been reminded of what I was running from and had extinguished that hope.

"My dear, I wanted him to hear what had happened to you. To understand who you were and what exactly he was setting his heart or at least his desires on. I had expected him to learn that you had divorced because of a lover or feeling shunned and jealous of your husband's mistresses. I never expected the truth behind your divorce. And once you'd told me, I knew that you would never willingly hurt Erik or betray him..."

"But I did hurt him. I can't give him the one thing he wants most. I can't be a lover to a man ever again. There's too much fear, too many memories..."

She took my hand tightly again.

"What is broken can be fixed, Genevieve. It may take months, even years to trust again, but it _can_ be done. You could wake up tommorow and know that you could love again. You could wait years and one day realize that you are ready. But do not sell yourself and Erik short, my dear. You and him deserve better than that."

I stared at her, until I had to look down. I found myself smiling slightly, then finally laughing softly.

"Do you think he would be patient? And wait for me?"

"My dear, you have seen his face, no?" I nodded. "Then you know that on that front there are few options open to him except for a prostitue, which he is much too proud for, and an anomymous encounter, which would be rare, if it would ever happen. Be his friend, his companion. Do not give up on yourself. And when you finally are ready, do not waste your trust upon someone else who will not cherish your gift as Erik will."

I looked away, my face turning pink. "I can assure you _that_ would never happen."

She leaned across the table, and whispered low and soft.

"Do you love him, Genevieve?"

I simply stared at my hands for a several moments, and then raised my eyes to hers, giving her a nervous smile.

"Very much."

She smiled, tears glistening in her eyes.

"When the time comes, and you will know when it does, you will make him very happy."

"I will try."


	39. Chapter Thirty-Eight

**Chapter 38**

That night after the performance of _Le Baudelaire_ and the many frantic costume changes and emergency alterations of garments that ripped due to a squabble that had broken out amongst Jammes, Lisette and some other girls over a handsome man in the audience that apparently had been "visiting" all of them without their knowledge, I was exceedingly tired.

Once I was back in my little room, I ordered a bath and sunk into it with relief, gasping at the heat of the water until my skin adjusted to the temperature. I sighed in only the contentment that a bath could bring a harried woman, flitting my fingers through the foam of the new berry vanilla bubble bath oil that Christine de Chagny had given to me tonight as a "thank you" for taking several of her jackets and gowns with the promise to return them to her with some stitching and applique to liven them up. The smell was wonderful, sweet and fruity, but with my favorite scent of vanilla in the background. The bubbles were already softening my skin, leaving it silky, giving evidence to the fact that the gift had been an expensive one. I would have to make sure her garments were carefully and beautifully done.

The Chagnys, especially Christine, had been distraught over the death of Madame Lefevre. Christine had been very fond of the older woman, who had been so patient with her the night of her first performance in Hannibal, making sure the full white gown had fit her perfectly. I'd informed them of the funeral tommorow in the small chapel of the cemetery at Perros Guirec. They'd assured me that they would be in attendance.

I sat up in the bathtub, reaching for a new book that Meg had loaned me, a gothic romance. Besides my book sat my tissue wrapped package of peppermint candy sticks that I'd bought from a small girl backstage named Claire who sold sweets and mints to the cast and staff during performances. I removed one stick from the little parcel and sunk deep into my bath, twirling the candy in my mouth and opening the book to the first chapter.

Soon I was lost in the story of the dark, brooding hero and the delicate, beautiful heroine, defying her lord's desires and needs, willfully disobeying him. The novel was quite graphic to say the least and I read opened mouth, my candy held in my other hand above the water, hardly believing that it was possible for a man and woman to...fornicate in such a position. I looked down at my body, wondering if my own unflexible limbs could ever form such shapes. I sighed at the passion of the character's lovemaking, wishing that I could forget my past and my bastard of a husband's twisting of our marriage bed, and be free enough to allow a man to take me any way he wished. As I read, I couldn't help but envision Erik as the hero and myself as the heroine, our bodies entwined, moving together frantically...

I finally had to stop reading and fanned myself with the book, my face flushed and my heart pounding away. The water was beginning to cool as it was, and my stick of hard candy was almost gone. I still needed to wash my hair. I could always read later.

I set the book down by the side of the tub and submerged my head, and lathered my hands up. I washed my hair quickly, shivering as the water cooled with each passing moment, then submerged my head once more and worked the suds out until the curls no longer felt soapy.

I stood, my teeth chattering and me gasping as the rapidly lowering temperature of the room struck my skin. I dashed to my thick, cotton robe and dove under the covers of my bed, soaking my pillow completely with my sopping wet hair. With a curse, I reached for a linen towel that the running boys had brought and wrapped my head in it then snuggled back under the covers, willing my chills to stop.

Soon, the heat from my body warmed the cocoon of blankets and I stopped shivering. I sighed comfortably and threw the covers off of me and stood to retrieve my book and my sketchpad that dashing into the bed so quickly had caused to fall on the floor. I set both upon my dresser for easy access, then picked up my little parcel of candy and tucked it in a drawer. I went back to my bed and laid down once more, bringing the romance with me to read before I went to sleep.

As I was opening my page to my spot, a knock came at the mirror.

I stared at the mirror, hardly believing that he would knock, rather than just simply stroll into the room with his usual elegant negligence. Perhaps he could become a gentleman afterall...

"Genevieve! May I come in or just continue standing here like a dolt!"

And then again, maybe not...

"Come in," I called, rolling my eyes and going back to my book. At least he'd waited until after I'd gotten out of the tub and dressed.

The mirror slid open and he stepped in, stripped down to his trousers and shirtsleeves. I managed not to stare at the V of exposed throat and chest, keeping my eyes, _for the most part_, on my page.

He came to me and sat on the edge of the bed by my bent knees, then turned and leaned against the bed's footboard, propping one leg beside my own.

"How goes the designs for _Aida_?" he asked, his long, ungloved fingers toying with the tassels of the velvet throw he had brought to my room one night.

I lowered my book and leaned over, grasping my sketchbook and handing it to him. As he took it, his fingers brushed mine and the shock went straight to my bones. I raised my book quickly to hide my blush. All these weeks of acquaintance with him and his touch never failed to send chills through me that had nothing to do with being cold.

He flipped through the pages of the _Le Baudelaire_ sketches, until he came to the first _Aida_ sketch, Princess Amneris' gown. He studied it, making a sound of approval in the back of his throat, then turned the page. He had no complaints, except to point out to me that Erique Louroux would look like a bloated sea creature in the blue tunic under his breastplate. I snorted with laughter and asked if I should use white as the shade instead of the deep sapphire.

"He'll look like a massive pastry, but I do suppose that's more appetizing than a beached whale," he commented dryly, turning the page. I nearly choked laughing at his audacity and had to wipe away tears. He smirked at me, his sensual lips turning up at one corner. I lowered my eyes before my thoughts turned to an inappropriate vein. _Perhaps I won't borrow Meg's kind of novels again._

He turned another page and let out a massive sigh. I looked up at him curiously, my brow furrowed. Had one of my designs displeased him? It shouldn't have mattered, but his opinion was important to me for some reason.

He looked over at me and shook his head in the negative. "No, my dear, your designs are very well executed. I am just simple annoyed with the choice of our Aida. La Carlotta leaves much to be desired as a reigning soprano. Her voice is a sharp instrument upon the chalkboard of my soul, I'm afraid. The woman leaves me cold." He tossed the sketchbook beside of him and crossed his arms.

I bit my lip behind my book. I had wanted to bring up the subject of Christine with him for days now, but through circumstances and our consistiently turmoiled relationship, it had been impossible. But now he sat before me, disgusted with the current diva who had resumed her place after Christine had married the Vicomte de Chagny. I needed to know how he felt about her. Was he still in love with her? Did he still hold a hope inside of him that she would return?

It was vital for me to know. If one morning I woke and knew without a shadow of a doubt that I could give not only my heart to him but also trust him and myself enough to make love and start a possible life with him, I would need to know that he would be mine and mine alone, with no ghosts of the past clinging to us.

I sat down my book upon the nightstand and sat up, pulling my knees under my chin and wrapping my arms about them.

"Erik?" I asked quietly.

"Yes?"

"Christine had a beautiful voice, didn't she?" I didn't look at him, but studied my fingernails, idly picking at them.

He was silent for what seemed an eternity before he spoke.

"Her voice could make the angels weep." The depth of emotion in his tone had me looking up at him. He was staring sightlessly at the mirror, his masked profile facing me.

"You taught her, didn't you? You were her voice teacher?"

"Yes, of a sort. I suppose you've heard about the 'Angel of Music'?" He turned toward me, his face hardening.

I nodded. Meg Giry had told me everything that I could ever possibly want to know about the Phantom of the Opera and his many forms, including Christine's Angel and the Opera Ghost. What Meg didn't inform me of, the twins certainly did, those two girls' penchant for gossip taken into consideration.

"I became her Angel of Music when she was but seven years old. I can assure you my intent was purely to bring a smile to her sad little face. She'd just lost her father and she seemed such a lost, lonely child. When I'd hear her cry at night about wanting an Angel of Music, it seemed that I could at last be _something_ to _someone_. She'd light a candle everyday in the chapel for her dead father and that's where I began to sing to her." He stood and walked to the mirror, his voice distant as if reliving the past. "I began to teach her in the chapel or in the dormitories when no one was about. Those lessons gave us both so much joy. I was her Angel and she was mine. A breath of innocence in my dark world."

I shifted in the bed so that I could look at him as he turned and leaned against the mirror's surface. There was a slight smile on his face, remembering those times, teaching a little child. She had probably been his only joy. When had she turned into his own private agony?

"When did you...I mean...when did..?"

"When did I fall in love with her?" He leveled his gaze on me. I blushed and nodded.

He sighed and straightened and came back over to the bed, lowering himself to the floor beside of me so that I could see his masked profile, his eyes meeting mine in the mirror as he sat against the frame.

"She was taking on more of a role in the corps de ballet. Madame Giry had turned her from a rather gawky child into a graceful young woman, her body becoming slender and firm and supple with practice. One day I sat in Box Five, against the wall, hidden from the sight of those on stage. They were rehearsing a simple ballet the Opera was to perform in the spring. I was watching the progress of the dancing, and Christine whirled onto the stage, her arms, so long and graceful held out in front of her, her dark curls flying, her shapely legs lifting and spinning her about the stage, and I looked at her and I _wanted_ her. Wanted her with a ferocity that left me shaking. All the years that I'd lived in my home beneath the opera, my adolescence, my awkward puberty, my years as a young, healthy man, and into my late thirties, I had dealt with physical desire on occassion, but I'd always been able to take care of it. But once my eyes were opened and I really looked at her, I could not make it go away. She was eighteen, I was thirty-eight, old enough to be her father. My lust for her _disgusted_ me, but I could not stop looking at her. When I taught her through the mirror and in the chapel, I couldn't keep my eyes off her. Desire turned to obsession. And somehow that turned to love. I wanted her in every way possible. Her body, of course, but her mind, her soul, her _heart_. When that boy came to her the night of her first performance, it pushed me over the edge. I could no longer be her Angel of Music. I wanted to be a man to her. And you know the rest..." He lifted a dejected hand and smoothed his hair. "I couldn't keep her with me. And she loved that fop. That night, when _Don Juan Triumphant_ was performed, I made her admit her desire for me, tormenting her on stage, until she surrendered. But when I professed my love to her, she ripped my mask off."

He went silent, his breathing suddenly harsh, his eyes closed on his pain. I scooted close to him on the bed and hesitantly touched his shoulder, the muscles hard with tension. He reached up and clutched my hand fiercely.

"All I could hear were the screams of the audience and the people on stage. Their mouths open in horror, like those who used to gather around my cage at the gypsy fair when I was forced on exhibition. Some screamed, some laughed..." his voice broke painfully.

I threw back the covers and slipped to the floor beside of him, winding my arms about his waist and removing his mask to gently kiss his tears and the eyelid of his sunken eyes. He swallowed hard and leaned into my embrace, his temple against mine.

"I snapped. All I could see was their faces and Christine's looking guilty. I released the chandelier, not even caring if I killed everyone in the auditorium. I took Christine down to my home, made her put on a wedding dress. When Raoul came to save her I nearly killed him, forcing her to choose between becoming mine or losing her fiancee. She chose me. She kissed me. _My first kiss_... and I couldn't do it. I couldn't bear the thought of waking up every morning and seeing her horrified eyes next to me in the bed, couldn't stomach the thought of forcing her. I let her and the boy go." He let out a shuddering breath, running a hand through his hair.

Beside him, my chin on his shoulder, I was silent, stroking his hand slowly, tracing the veins on the back of his hand. My eyes were damp and burning. I'd never known, never imagined one man carrying so much sorrow and guilt upon him. He was a murderer, an extortionist, a thief, and a criminal with a bounty hanging over his head, but I couldn't, no matter what, no matter how hard I tried, lay the blame completely upon him. He had been treated horrendously by the world and finally when his heart had set upon someone who he believed could share his empty life, she belonged to another. I didn't blame Christine; I could not. We could not choose who we fell in love with. Fate had not given us that power. And I had seen the way the two young lovers looked at one another. There was no doubt that they shared a fierce love and passion. My own heart had sets its cap at this broken man, who if I tried to save from his loneliness, might not ever return my love.

My next question was a difficult one to ask, but I had to know. I simply couldn't sit in ignorance any longer.

"Do you love her still?" I whispered.

He stared at his unmasked reflection in the mirror, almost as if he was forcing himself to, his face hard and determined. He was silent and still.

I suddenly felt ashamed for asking him, and I drew away from him, making to stand up, but he reached for me without looking and pulled me back to his side, one arm going about my waist, until I laid my head on his chest. He pulled the linen towel off my head and worked his fingers through my damp hair as he continued to stare at his face in the mirrror.

"I still love her. I always will. I can never forget her. But...what I feel for her is different now. I do not ever want to see her in pain and I'll kill the boy if he ever hurts her, but I do not want her any longer. She's happy. And I know that if I am...patient...perhaps I can find my own happiness as well...with a woman who has seen my face," he turned to me at last, pushing my wet hair behind my ear, "and who loves me regardless."

I stared up at him, my heart beating slow in my ears. _He had heard._


End file.
